


A Just and Even Measure

by BarbariousBarbarian



Series: Age of Sail [6]
Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester, World of Warcraft
Genre: ADVENTURE!!!, Eventual Romance, F/F, Flagrant Disregard for Canon, Here within lies ship to ship combat, Kul Tiras, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Third War, Probably doesn't stand alone?, Set in Quickyoke's "Increments of Longing" universe, The Drust, it might, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29275707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarbariousBarbarian/pseuds/BarbariousBarbarian
Summary: Guardsman Jane Fitzwilliams has been hand-picked for a secret mission - a simple one. Escort a Postal Officer safely to her destination.Who knew delivering the mail was so dangerous?Join Jane, ten years after the events ofToil and Strife, in her struggles against the conspiracies and dangers of Drustvar.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: Age of Sail [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1321388
Comments: 70
Kudos: 49





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArduousJester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArduousJester/gifts).



> Thank you to ArduousJester for the idea - hopefully it was kind of what you had in mind.

It was a perfectly miserable evening. Rain poured into every nook and cranny of Boralus, sleeting off its tiles and onto the streets. All decent folk were inside their homes - and all the indecent ones were down at the pub.The only sound was of the big clock tolling the hour. It was a quarter to eleven. 

Jane pushed inside the guardhouse, water dripped from her coat. The duty-officer, sitting behind the front desk, raised his mug in cheerful salute. 

“Evening, Fitzwilliams,” he said. “The old man wanted to see you - head right in.”

Jane grunted sourly.

“And no,” continued the duty-officer, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t know what it’s about - only that your leave’s cancelled. Best mind your manners, though - here’s some sort of big-wig in there with him.”

Jane grimaced, stalking across the orderly room, and pausing before the door. She settled her cloak, and knocked firmly.

“Come!” called a voice from inside.

Jane shoved it open. Heavy boots thudded as she marched across the floor, leaving a trail of muddy prints. With a theatrical crash, she came to attention before the desk. “Fitzwilliams, Jane!” The parade-ground salute sprayed drops of water from the cuff of her jacket. “Reporting as ordered, Sir!”

The Chief pushed aside a stack of suddenly rain-splattered paperwork. He shot her an irritated look. “Sit down, Fitzwilliams.” 

“Yes, sir,” Jane said. She remained standing. 

He shot her a second, even more irritated look. Then he gestured shortly towards one corner of the room. “Can I introduce you to Vice-Admiral Grey?” 

“Charmed,” said a cool voice. “I am sorry for calling you up so late.”

Jane dropped the salute, but remained facing forward, correctly at attention. Water began to drip down from the hem of her cloak, regular as a metronome, pooling on the floor. 

Outside, a bugler began sounding ‘Lights Out.”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” growled the Chief, as the notes died away. He tapped his pen against the desk. “You’re being reassigned. Special duties - effective immediately.”

“Sir,” Jane said, face wooden. 

There was another brief silence.

Abruptly, the Chief pushed himself back, chair scraping across the floor. “Fitzwilliams, listen to me.” He half-heaved himself to his feet, leaning across the desk, face intent. “The Lord Admiral’s safety is at stake.” 

Jane’s gaze sharpened. “Sir?”

“It is not important for you to know how,” he said, dropping back into his seat, hand up in open supplication. “Only that the Navy’s got a plan.”

“As you wish, Sir,” Jane said slowly.

“Actually,” said the other voice. “It is as  _ I _ wish.”

Jane turned her head, just slightly. An unprepossessing, dark-eyed, dark-haired woman - presumably the Vice-Admiral - contemplated her from a seat near the window. 

For the first time, Jane was conscious that her hair was bedraggled, her cloak sodden with rain. Jane was not the tallest of her family - far from it - but the woman made her feel too large; ungainly in some uncertain way.

“Your task for me is simple,” said the woman. “You will deliver my Postman to Drustvar, in both safety and secrecy. Then you will report to the Governor of the province.”

The weight of her gaze settled on Jane again, face thoughtful. Abruptly, she pulled herself to her feet. Artifical legs creaked.

“Use all of your skill,” she said, striding easily across the room. “Every measure of stubbornness. Let nothing delay, or stop the postman.” She stopped nearby the desk, dark eyes burning. Her hands beat a restless staccato against one of her wooden limbs. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Jane said, meeting her gaze.

The woman nodded, heavily. “Then fail not in this charge, at your peril.” She made a short gesture at the Chief, and turned back, returning to her chair. 

Jane swallowed down her impatience; her face remained blank. Curiosity and frustration warred with the part of her mind listing the things that now needed doing. Frozen toes wriggled in her boots, keeping the blood flowing; a trickle of water was making its way unpleasantly down her back.

The Chief ignored her. Instead he fumbled around with the papers on his desk, pulling out a particular packet. “You’ll have to burn this after you’ve read it,” he said, pushing it over. “Take your tinderbox in case there’s more. And some parts aren’t written down anyway.” His fingers tapped the top of the paperwork. “The postman will know more than is written here - Fletcher. Find her at the sign of the White Hart. She’ll take you to the  _ Mason Trader -  _ the fast packet boat to Carver’s Harbour. Once you arrive, move overland to Waycrest Manor, and report to Lady Sarah for new instructions.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Jane, taking the sheaf of orders.

“You’re dismissed,” the Chief stood up, face grim. “Tides preserve you, Fitzwilliams.”

Jane threw another salute, then about-faced smartly. With a second great crash of boots, she marched from the room.The door clicked shut. 

Without a moment of hesitation, she made directly for the tea billy, scowling to see it was empty. 

“What was it about, then?” said the duty-officer. He looked at her with open curiosity. 

“Just my idiot sister,” Jane groused, working the billy handle fruitlessly. Her throat felt parched. “It’s always something with her.” She gave up, chucking the clean mug back onto the sink, heading towards the exit.

“Wait, hang on,” he said. “Isn’t your sister the…?” 

The door swung shut behind her.

Rain poured out of the sky, unforgiving. Her boots splashed through the courtyard’s puddles, soaking through every layer of cloth. Flipping her collar up against the sleet, she moved swiftly across the cobbles to the bridge, heading back towards barracks. A hand unconsciously rose, brushing the Anchor embroidered over her heart. There were rucks that needed packing, weapons that needed issuing, and letters to pen. High tide was only eight hours away.

It was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

Jane hiked over to Unity Square first, uneasy in her civilian clothes. There she posted a letter quietly through her mother’s door. A passing wagon offered a lift, which Jane was grateful for - safely ensconced atop a sack of carrots, she managed to doze off. 

When the drover shook her awake, it was still dark. Jane mumbled out thanks. A coin changed hands, and she climbed down from the wagon, casting her eye around for danger. Mariner’s row reeked. Fish and rotten garbage floated down overflowing gutters; somewhere in the distance, there was the crashing sound of the ocean. Above her was the sign of the White Hart. 

Idly, she adjusted the pack slung over one shoulder. Behind her, the wagon rumbled off.

The Hart was rough-looking - more a pile of splintered oak and boarded up windows than a proper pub. No light escaped, nor noise. The door was heavy, oiled, and carved with vines. 

Just two doors up the street was the sign of the Red Anchor - a drunk sailor sang warblingly outside. The door was flung open to the early morning, and light spilled out. Cheerful noise echoed from the neighbouring walls.

Jane turned back to the White Hart - then shrugged. She pushed open the door.

It took a few blinks for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior - shadowy figures resolved. The pub was crowded. Patrons sat silent and still, heads turned to look at her. A harper stood on the hearth, instrument raised, a half-plucked note fading away into the silence. Curls of smoke rose from a few lit pipes, each clenched in motionless teeth. 

Around her, thickly carved onto the wood panelling, were Drust symbols. Little charms and embroidery decorated the patrons. By the light of the candles, the people themselves looked unearthly. Jane adjusted her pack again, wishing she was in uniform. 

“Ma’am?”

Jane turned - the proprietor had walked out of the kitchen, presumably to find out why the music had stopped. 

“Ma’am,” he said, speaking slowly. His accent was the burr of purest Drustvar. “Do you require directions?”

“Thank you, but no,” said Jane, nodding respectfully. “I am here for a friend.”

The proprietor tilted his head, considering. “Then be welcome.” He shuffled sideways towards the fireplace.

Jane looked again towards the crowd. A few went back to their meals; another couple were talking to each other in low tones. The harper began to strum again, clear notes ringing above the rising hum. Hoping to avoid confrontation, Jane picked an empty corner, placed her pack down beside the table, and sat. In the warmth and shadows, with only a few hours of sleep, it was hard not to doze off again.

A thud startled her awake for a second time; she bolted upright, momentarily disoriented. A pack had been dropped heavily to the floor beside her. Above her stood a disheveled young Drust woman, dressed in the grey uniform of a postman. Her clothes fit poorly, but a tidy-looking blade was hanging from her belt, opposite a messenger tube. Dark eyes stared down, curious and considering. 

“Are you Fletcher?” Jane asked.

“I am,” said the postman, stepping back. “And you must be my noble escort.” 

Jane nodded curtly. With a smooth swing, she picked up both packs. Then she stood, hooking them easily over one shoulder. “After you.” She waved towards the door.

Fletcher took a deep breath, almost like she was going to say something - but instead she turned for the exit.

The rain was still pelting. Jane trudged along silently behind the postie - carrying two packs were cumbersome, but not heavy. Her mind wandered. The thought of breakfast was especially distracting. 

A wagon rumbled past, turning behind them to head up a sidestreet.

Abruptly Fletcher turned, grabbed Jane’s arm and yanked her into an alley. Jane moved to break the grip, but her arm was hampered - one pack fell to the ground. In an instant, Jane was pressed up against the wall, out of sight of the street, with a soft hand clamped over her mouth. Another hand gripped Jane’s free wrist, holding it tightly between their bodies. 

Jane went deadly still, and her shoulders bunched - but she didn’t move. 

Fletcher pressed close. “Easy there,” she whispered. “I’m not trying to hurt you - but you’ve got to be quiet. We’re being followed.” Her head was turned, staring intently out at the mouth of the alley

Jane shook free of the pack, and pulled the hand off her mouth. Fletcher didn’t move. She was still fixated on the passersby of the street. For a moment, nothing happened. 

But then, between the sailors and merchants, a woman clad only in her shirt-sleeves charged past. She carried a wicked-looking cane, which was raised menacingly, and her eyes were brutal. The woman’s gaze tracked every which way, scanning faces - but she spared only a brief glance down the alley as she sprinted past. Behind her came other hard-faced men; they also carried canes.  


Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. She pressed even closer, pushing them both up against the wall. One hand fell to the knife on her belt, and tension rode every line of her body.

A half minute later, and the woman was galloping back, panting heavily. She was still swinging the cane, and her head continued swiveling, searching. She pointed to it, calling out to one of the men behind her - then she disappeared up the street.

“Run,” Fletcher hissed, releasing Jane. “Run!”

Jane stumbled forward, scooping up their packs; then she broke into a swift jog. Fletcher, unencumbered, raced ahead like lightning. “Here,” she said, skidding to a halt beside a fence. “It’s our only chance - up!”

Jane didn’t speak, slow down, or hesitate - instead, with a bounding leap, she hurled herself at the tall fence, packs and all. Her boots kicked and scrabbled at the rough timber, and for a second she thought she wouldn’t make it. But then an outflung heel hooked the top rail and she was up, over - then falling gracelessly into the mud and garbage of the other side. 

She felt a moment of athletic satisfaction. Then another body plummeted from the sky, landing directly on top of her. 

“Ooof,” Jane said, quite involuntarily.

“Be quiet!” hissed Fletcher, scrambling up. Jane wheezed at her.

For a single, eternal moment Fletcher just stood there, looking down. Dark eyes caught the light oddly - her hand reached down to her belt. This time she did pull the knife. 

Jane, still wheezing, went for her truncheon.

Fletcher didn’t move to stop her. Instead she hunched protectively over Jane’s prone form, head tilted. In her absolute stillness, the grey uniform seemed to fade into the shadows. Water sleeted down on them, as they waited in the filthy courtyard. Everything was quiet. 

Jane slowly went to get up - only to halt at a sudden gesture from Fletcher. Dark eyes caught hers, deliberately. Then they flicked towards the alley. Jane paused, waiting again. 

Unmistakably, on the other side of the fence, there was the sudden sound of shoes kicking through puddles of water. 

Jane worked her truncheon out of her belt as silently as she could. Fletcher went absolutely still. 

The shoes continued to sprint closer and closer. 

But then they began to fade again as they continued past. The accompanying heavy wheezing also faded, disappearing down the length of the alley. There was an endless, uncertain few minutes. Then footsteps came back again, shuffling now, with the breathing still laboured. They grew softer, the merged back onto the noises of the street. 

Jane hauled herself to her feet, and re-hosted her billy-club. Then she grabbed one of the packs, settling it firmly over one shoulder. Mud streaked her clothes and hair, but this was ignored - instead she wiped the gritty rainwater from her face, and grabbed the other pack. 

“Are you coming?” she said to Fletcher, turning to the building’s rear exit. It was locked. A swift boot to the right place fixed that problem, splintering the wood. Jane opened the door and walked inside.

Fletcher trailed after her. “Do you often kick your way into buildings?” she said, sounding intrigued.

“Depends on the building,” said Jane. A glance around proved the room to be empty, dusty and abandoned. Jane carefully placed a few coins on a nearby table anyway - it would be more than enough to replace the lock.

“What excellent kicking technique, anyway,” said Fletcher, brightly. “Did I ever introduce myself? Cynthia Fletcher, of the Lord Admiral’s Mail - at your service.” She bowed, flourishing her hat.

Jane grunted, then walked out of the back room. The next area had once been a parlour, and opened out onto a hallway. Jane could see the front door - she breathed out a sigh of relief. The lock was a type that was operated from the inside. 

“And you are?” said Fletcher, from somewhere over her shoulder.

“Fitzwilliams,” Jane said shortly. She dropped the two packs, then sat down on top of one, digging through an exterior pouch. 

There was a quiet pause. Fletcher sat on the other pack, almost hesitantly. “Fitzwilliams? Isn’t that…?”

“No,” snapped Jane. “You’re thinking of Proudmoore.”

There was silence. Jane wriggled free a water flask, and a second later also turned up a packet of dried plums - these were both tossed in Fletcher’s direction.

“Eat,” said Jane. “We’d best stay inside for now - she could still be out there.”

Fletcher nodded, unscrewing the water bottle’s cap. Jane leaned back, staring at the cracked plaster of the ceiling, and listening to the rain splatter up against the shutters.

A few quiet minutes passed. 

Then a throat cleared, deliberately, accompanied by the sound of paper wadding up. “I do believe it’s past time to go, Fitzwilliams.” Fletcher said, throwing the crumpled plum-packet into a corner. She then recapped the water bottle, and tossed it back.

Jane caught it, nodding. It was the work of a moment to tuck the flask away, and loop her arms back through the pack straps. With a rolling heave, she was on her feet, walking to the entryway. 

A glance back proved Fletcher was following - she winked cheerfully, but her hand had dropped to her knife again. 

Jane approached the door, and slowly cracked it open. Pale brown eyes took in the street, assessing. Then she straightened. “Coast is clear.” A firm push overcame the rusty hinges - she stepped through. 

Fletcher came after, shutting the door behind them. Dark eyes darted about. “So it does seem.” She reached up, and lifted her hat, pushing a lock of hair beneath it. Then, abruptly, she was off, walking up the street at a brisk pace. “Come along, Fitzwilliams,” she called out, jauntily. “We don’t want to be late.”

Jane strode after her, longer legs eating up the cobblestones. 

The crowds grew denser as they approached the port proper. If rain had discouraged Kul Tiran commerce, then Boralus would have died in poverty long ago. Instead hawkers shouted out promises from under deep-brimmed sealskin caps, travellers huddled under tarps, and carriages splashed their way along the street. Small berths full of schooners and ketches unloaded their catch of fish, the sailors clad in thick oilskins.

Fletcher walked past all of them, heading deeper into the docks. The ships grew bigger. The sky turned into a forest of masts. 

The  _ Mason Trader  _ was a pretty typical packet ship. She had been built for sturdiness rather than speed, and it lay docked among a line of similar ships, each a hive of activity. A few tardy passengers were heading aboard, but it wasn’t particularly busy. The only person left on the wharf was a bored-looking sailor, standing at the bottom of the gangway. He occasionally called out that he sold last-minute tickets. 

Jane glanced about them for anything peculiar, and saw nothing. 

On-board the  _ Trader _ , the crew was already making ready for departure. Jane allowed herself a slight nod of satisfaction - they had timed their arrival perfectly. If they hurried aboard now, they would make the sailing, but anyone after them would likely miss it. 

Fletcher, however, seemed oblivious to the narrowness of their timetable. She had paused at the top of the dock, looking up at the ship. Then she dropped her eyes to the water. Faint lines of nervousness touched her features.

“What’s wrong?” growled Jane, stopping beside her. “Do we not have tickets?”

“No, I’ve got them.” Fletcher’s lips quirked in a self-deprecating smile. “It’s just I’m afraid the ocean doesn’t agree with me much. I get… I get rather seasick.”

Jane winced - she had heard of seasickness. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“Well,” Fletcher said. She smiled again, weakly. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” She took a deep breath, letting it out in a long rush. Then she marched up to the ticket-seller. 

Jane followed behind, keeping a watchful eye over the crowded docks.

Fletcher was a frightful sight. Her clothes were streaked with reeking mud, and her hat was badly dented. The ticket-sailor straightened, staring her down.

“Not you,” he said shortly. “No passage. You look unlucky.”

Jane bristled, but Fletcher put a hand on her arm.

“My wife and I have tickets,” she said sternly. “Cabin-class tickets.”

The sailor paused. He looked at Jane, uncertainly - then back at Fletcher. His eyes lingered on the grubby grey uniform of the Post Office. Finally he pursed his lips, and turned to Jane. “Pass ‘em over then.”

Fletcher produced two sheets of paper, and patiently held them out. The sailor looked at Jane again. 

She stared back, unimpressed. “Problem?” 

The sailor heaved a sigh. “No.” He took the tickets from Fletcher, scrutinizing them closely. Reluctantly, he nodded. “All in order. Nothing stopping you.”

Fletcher turned, offering her arm out with a smile. “Shall we go up, darling?”

Jane was also covered in mud - and was a bad actress to boot. She took the arm, still glowering heavily at the ticket-sailor. 

He grumbled, face a mask of dissatisfaction. “Short trip today, ma’am,” he muttered. “A fine gale’s blowing up - we’ll make Carver’s Habour before midafternoon. You and your… your honourable wife’ll be safe ashore again soon.”

Jane continued to scowl at him as Fletcher gently towed her up the gangway. 

Up on deck, the purser had started blowing his whistle. The few other passengers began disappearing below, alongside porters carting away luggage. Crew raced around in organised confusion, and orders rang out. Heavy lines began being thrown up from shore, and sailors poured through the rigging, working their way out along yards.

A few passing crew members spotted Fletcher - there were some deep frowns, and a few turned their back on her - but otherwise they were left alone.

Jane glowered in all directions, straightening to her full height, fists clenched. 

“I don’t want to go below,” Fletcher said, abruptly. Jane turned to find Fletcher’s face had gone completely white. 

Jane’s scowl melted. “We don’t have to,” she said, stepping forward. “We’ll just wait out here.” She hesitated. “But can I get you out of the rain?”

“I don’t want to go below,” Fletcher said again. Her hand reached out and grabbed the heavy timber of the ship’s rail. This was held like it was a lifeline.

Jane dropped their packs beside a pile of crates, then unpinned her cloak. This she threw around Fletcher’s shoulders. Her civilian cloak was old, and wasn’t exactly regulation for the post-office to wear two raincoats - but it would keep the worst of the sea off. 

Fletcher clutched it gratefully, but didn’t let go of the rail. Her eyes stayed desperately fixed on the shoreline. 

Jane watched her for an instant, then turned and took a seat on a coiled cable. Rain soaked through her woolen jumper, but the day wasn’t so cold. There was nothing to do but hurry up and wait. 

Dipping into her pocket, Jane fetched out a brush, and pulled off one of her boots..

Behind her, she could hear the sailors tumbling across the deck, bare feet pattering, as they were chased by the bellowed orders of the buson. Their little piece of deck was left untouched - the sailors were deliberately steering clear. High above, sails unfurled, billowing out. 

The ship vibrated under Jane’s seat. The dock began to slowly slide past. Wood began groaning, and back onshore, a few onlookers began waving their goodbyes.

“We will all soon find out,” said Fletcher, quietly. 

Jane worked her brush over the boot’s stitching. “Sounds good,” she said. “Can we start with me?”

Fletcher frowned, half-turning. “Excuse me?”

Jane knocked a chunk of dirt off, and flicked it into the scuppers. “I have questions.”

“Oh.” Fletcher looked rueful. “That makes sense. You can ask, of course, but I might not be able to answer.”

“Noted.” Jane carefully rotated the boot, looking for any dirt she’d missed. “Why bring along a guardsman? You can clearly handle yourself - I went down quick enough.”

“Why, Miss Fitzwilliams, aren’t you a charmer,” Fletcher said, a smile in her voice. “And a liar, too. You could have been free any time you chose.”

“Hmm,” said Jane, pulling the first boot back on. “Well. Then why are we being followed?” 

“Because of the mail, of course,” Fletcher said, turning back to staring out at the shore. “Because out there are people who want to stop it.” One hand peeled itself from the rail, lifting the cloaks to reveal the message-tube attached to her belt. 

“Just the mail?” Jane eyed it dubiously. “Just normal mail is why you’ve got a guardsman attached to you, and a Vice-Admiral writing your orders?” 

“Of course,” said Fletcher, grandly, letting the cloaks fall back. “An efficient postal service is very important.” Her hand returned to the rail, and she leaned over it, watching the last of the city slip past. 

Jane transferred the brush to her other hand, and concentrated on prying a small stone from the boot’s tread - this was tossed overboard

Abruptly, Fletcher hunched over. Then she straightened, stepping back. Jane lowered her boot, concerned. 

A hand dropped to gently lift Jane’s chin. Dark eyes looked down, piercing. “Promise me,” Fletcher said fiercely. “Promise if we get separated, you will get to Waycrest Manor. Promise me.” Her words dropped to a whisper, hand falling away. 

“Sure,” said Jane, turning back to her boot. “But let’s make sure you do too.”

Fletcher blinked - then she laughed, open and genuine. Jane smiled to herself. 

One final scrub had the last of the muck off, and then the second boot was returned to her foot. Wet socks squelched as Jane leaned back against a crate. Above her, the sailors began singing.

The voyage wasn’t a long one, and the route was gentle. Jane watched landmarks slip past, wishing she had something to do.

Rain continued to sweep the deck. The wind grew steadily. Up on the quarterdeck, the Captain began striding around, staring up into the sails and calling orders. As the channels gave way to the wider tidal sounds the ship became more lively, pitching and yawing. 

Jane was too wet and cold to sleep; instead she began practicing Elvish verb forms. The coil of rope made an uncomfortable seat. Jane was just contemplating other possible options when lunch arrived - this consisted of two sandwiches and a haughty steward. Jane stood gratefully, and bolted the food down. 

Fletcher looked at her own sandwich uneasily, before finally dropping it overboard. Jane thought it must be because of that seasickness thing.

Another hour passed - then another hour - until they were more than three-quarters of the way there. The dark shores of Drustvar had risen up before them, and then began passing abeam, promising safe harbour soon. 

Jane privately thought they might need it. The wind had been blowing up stronger with every ring of the bell - now, after a particularly bellicose gust, she looked up at the quarterdeck. The Captain gave an order to shorten sail, his face puzzled. 

The ship barely lost any speed. 

Jane frowned, deeply. “Now that’s something,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like this on such shallow water.”

Fletcher looked back at Jane. “Is that so?” She was still standing, shock still, as she had been for the entire journey. Her clothes, hair and face were totally saturated. Hands wrapped so tightly against the rail, the white of her knuckles stood out. Her eyes darted around, like a wild animal caught in a trap.

“Don’t worry,” said Jane. She staggered to her feet, leaning against a nearby crate. “Carver’s Harbour can’t be more than a half-hour away - we’ll be there before we know it.”

Fletcher shot her a desperate look. 

The rain, if anything, increased. It began beating down so strongly it threatened to bruise them. The waves grew higher, and the wind began to shrek, like some un-Tides-blessed thing. Jane struggled to ride the ship’s motion, clutching at the friendly crate. Then the ship sharply pitched, burying its nose into the waves with a mighty spray of seawater. 

“What the…?” Jane spluttered, spitting salt from her mouth. “That’s not…” 

Another wave slammed and crashed into the hull - the entire ship shivered. 

Jane dropped forward, almost losing balance, reaching frantically out for Fletcher. “Come away from the rail!” she cried. “Take my hand!”

But Fletcher was hanging on with a death’s-grip, desperately shaking her head. Her arms wrapped bodily around the wooden rail, squeezing with all her might.

The wind howled out a long, furious melody. Another spray of water flung up from the hungry sea, hammering into their little patch of deck. Deep, stippling groans rang through the timbers; beside them, the mainmast began to bend. With a sudden, terrifying crack, a splinter the size of a man’s arm fractured off the base of it, spinning away to the deck. 

“What the fuck!” someone screamed. “Why is this happening?”

“Witchery!” yelled someone else - it was the ticket-sailor, from the dock. He staggered into view, wild with fury, pointing at Fletcher. “She’s a fucking Drust tree-witch, that’s what she must be! I told you all she was unlucky!”

Jane looked up to see dozens of faces, motionless. There was the steward, and two of the young marine cadets - behind them were the ordinary sailors, slipping and sliding. Expressions began hardening, edged with determined, crazed terror. 

“Get her off the ship, boys!” someone shrieked. “We’ve got to get her overboard, before we all drown!”

“You will stand clear!” roared Jane, backing up until Fletcher was safely behind her. “Stay away, all of you!” It was a struggle to stay standing on the heaving deck, but hours of dance lessons were finally paying off. With hand steadily on the ship’s rail, she pulled out her truncheon, lifting it threateningly.

The sailors didn’t stop - they rushed over from every part of the deck, converging quickly. 

“Get out of our way, lady,” one yelled, from just out of range. His face was set. “We don’t want to hurt you!” Spray flung itself across the deck, drenching everyone, forcing him back. “Just let us have the Drust!”

Jane blinked her eyes clear, and snarled. She let go of the rail, and desperately dug around in her pocket - her fingers closed around cold metal.

“In the name of the Lord Admiral!” she yelled, lifting her golden badge, “I order you to cease!” The anchor of the Proudmoores gleamed dully in the light.

The sailors flinched back, recoiling like a wave. 

For a second Jane thought they might actually obey - but then a heavy figure pressed forward through the struggling sailors. The Captain. 

“Get that witch off my ship!” He ordered, turning to his people. His eyes were hard. “The Lord Admiral’s one of us - she’ll understand!”

The sailors surged forward again. Jane suddenly had no time to see what Fletcher was doing - she stepped forward and brought the billy down on a woman’s arm, with a sickening crunch. The motion turned into a backhanded strike across another’s face, and blood arced out from his broken nose, and the third blow thudded into the meat of a sailor’s shoulder. Each sailor staggered back, cursing or screaming - a fourth blow sent a sailor crashing into a pile of lashed cargo, slipping down the heeling deck.

Then sailors were on her, grabbing her arms from every side, beating her down with fists and heavy pieces of rope. Her legs were yanked up, sending her crashing to the deck - she rolled, desperately. A heavy boot hit her ribs, and a bare foot struck her ear; she crashed into something wooden and heavy. Then the only thing she could do was raise her arms to guard her face. 

Suddenly the crush around her eased - arms reached down to snatch her up, pulling her roughly to her feet again. A vengeful punch glanced off her shoulder, but the power taken by a lucky roll of the ship. “Just stay here, lady,” someone bellowed.

“Fletcher!” Jane roared, struggling. “Fletcher!”

She wrenched her body sideways, pulling her arm free enough to turn towards the rail. For a single, horrifying instant she saw sailors grabbing a figure in Post Office grey. Fletcher was fighting against the grip of a dozen grasping hands. The sailors heaved - a booted foot kicked out as Fletcher was lifted off the deck. Then there was only the terror in her eyes as she was up and over the rail, vanishing from sight. 

Hands relaxed on Jane’s arms, and she responded with brutality. An unlucky captor took a wicked blow to the groin - with a squeaky sound, he let go, cupping his privates and toppling to the deck.

Two swift strides forward, and a mighty jump - Jane was balanced on the rail. For a second, she hesitated, searching. Then she dived down, down into the murderous waters, which lashed upwards to swallow her out of the air.

The shock of impact almost stole her breath; the ocean was wild, ripping at her clothes and pulling her in all directions. For a single moment, Jane didn’t know which way was up - something brushed against her leg. She twisted like a snake, grabbing it and pulling, kicking hard in the opposite direction. 

With a gasp of pure relief, she hit air and not more water. Beside her, the bulk of the  _ Mason Trader  _ was still heaving through the water, sailing slowly away. On its deck the crew were running about frantically, paying no attention to what they had done.

Something was fighting her, clawing at her torso. It threatened at every instant to pull her down. Jane surged up, spluttering against an uncaring sea, pulling the struggling body up, lifting her face above the surface.

Fletcher’s expression was wild with panic. Her arms grabbed desperately. 

Jane took hold of her firmly, screaming at her to be still. She pushed Fletcher away when her struggles threatened them both - each time Fletcher’s face slipped below the water. Each time Jane would lunge forward again, dragging her back to the surface. Eventually Fletcher seemed to calm down - or at least grew weaker from cold. Jane was able to draw her close and keep her there, leaning back to hold her up. With Fletcher’s head resting against Jane’s upper torso, her head stayed mostly clear of the water.

Jane was a powerful swimmer. Moreover, she could hear the roar of the surf. Still, it was heavy going. Her boots had come off in the initial dive, but her jacket was wool and heavy; every desperate kick for the shoreline seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. The waves rolled over them both, threatening to tumble them over, and the wind tore through the sky. Jane coughed out water every time - but kept kicking, paddling desperately. 

The sound between Boralus and Drustvar was a narrow one. The shipping lanes came close to the shore. Jane praised every tectonic force, every navigator, every executive who had ever decided this should be so. The sweet song of the surf grew louder and louder with each passing minute, until the crash and hiss of it was Jane’s entire world.

Jane risked a quick glance - and wonder of wonders, it was a sandy beach instead of lethal rocks. Her kicking redoubled. She struggled, dragging the practically motionless Fletcher along to safety. 

It felt like an endless eternity of effort. Muscles screamed with the pain of it, lethargy drew down, everything felt slow and heavy. For a second, she thought the sandy feeling on her foot was just a dream - then she touched land again. Jane let her legs sink - then pushed herself to her feet. Still grasping Fletcher, she fought the surging, crashing waves, walking steadily to the beach. 

The water yanked at her, ripping and tugging; every wave washed a little less far up her torso. Finally she broke free of its grip, splashing out of its reach, then up past the wet-water mark and the rain-soaked driftwood. Broken shells crunched under her feet - her extremedites were so numb she couldn’t feel them. Fletcher lay completely still, cradled in her arms. 

It was only when she reached beyond vegetation - beyond the beach-side grasses, lashing about in the wind, and deep under the trees of the early forest - that she collapsed to her knees, spent. 

“Balance,” gasped Fletcher. Dark eyes had opened, and were looking up at Jane. “The cold is winning in you.”

Fletcher stirred, weakly. Jane looked down at her - truly looked. The ocean had torn off both cloaks, and wrenched away anything else loose besides; her hat was gone, and her shoes. Goosebumps pebbled Fletcher’s skin, and her lips were blue. The only thing she still appeared to possess was her belt - attached to it was a knife, and the sealed message tube.

Jane leaned back on her heels. Her badge was gone, as were her boots and truncheon. Their packs were still aboard the _Mason_ _Trader_ , with all their rations _._ The complex webbing she wore while on combat patrol had been left behind in barracks, traded for civilian clothes. The only thing she had left was her jacket. 

She set Fletcher down, tucking her out of the wind. Then she reaching into the inner pocket. From it, Jane produced a small, engraved tinderbox. 

“You’re really annoying, Chief,” she whispered, pulling it out, and hugging it to her chest. “But thank you for ordering me to bring this.”

Within fifteen minutes, the fire was burning.


	3. Chapter 3

Fletcher turned out to be as tough as dry boot-leather. After only an hour or two in front of the fire, she announced she was off to find food.

“I’d better come with you,” said Jane, rising to her feet. “Night will fall soon.” She glanced around, stoically - the forest was already darkening. 

“Fitzwilliams,” said Fletcher. “Don’t think me ungrateful when I say this - but you probably wouldn’t even know what food in the wilds looks like.”

“Fish,” said Jane. “Cockles. Seaweed.”

“Well, you can go find those,” said Fletcher, nodding. “For my part, the ocean can go fuck itself. Stay here - I’ll be back in an hour.” She moved off into the trees, barefoot. The greenery seemed to both part for her, and also swallow her up.

Jane stoked the fire higher and checked on their drying socks. Then she headed back down to the beach. The rage of the water seemed like a memory - only piles of seafoam, and the complete absence of shipping on the sounds, suggested anything had been amiss. Even the rain had stopped. Waves washed up on the sands as they always did, indifferently. 

By the time she walked back, the sun was setting. 

Fletcher was sitting by the campfire. “My valiant guardsman returns!” she said brightly, looking up. “I was just about to go looking for you.” In front of her was a rabbit, roasting on a crude spit. Beside her on a log was a pile of blackberries - her hands were stained dark with juice.

“May I have some?” asked Jane hesitantly, pointing at the berries.

Fletcher smiled fondly. “Please do. Those are all for you.”

Jane dropped to the log and began wolfing them down. Fletcher sat quietly next to her, rotating the rabbit. Eventually she declared it done. Jane ate half of that too. 

After the meal, Fletcher dragged her out into the trees, pointing out a small trickle of fresh water - when they got back to the camp again, night had well and truly fallen. 

The fire spit and crackled. She’d insisted Fletcher take her jacket, worried about her comfort. Now beyond the tree-line Jane could hear the crashing and roar of the waves. It lulled her softly, a familiar song in the darkness - her eyes blinked slower. Finally she managed a light doze, too uncomfortable to fully sleep.

The wind picked up. The trees rustled, like a whisper passing through the canopy. 

“Are you awake?” Fletcher breathed. 

“Yes,” mumbled Jane. She blinked her eyes open sluggishly, tipping her head to face her. “What do you need?”

Fletcher was propped up against a tree. The light of the fire played across her face. “You’re Kul Tiran,” she said, quietly. “The most Kul Tiran soul I have ever met. Doubtless you intend for us to be rescued by a passing ship.” 

“Yes.” Jane said - then yawned, scrubbing at her face. “That’d be safest.”

“We’d both die before ever reaching land again,” said Fletcher. “And worse, the mail wouldn’t make it to Lady Sarah.” 

Jane jerked a little, letting her hands fall. 

“We are being chased,” Fletcher said, simply. “By now, the enemy will know about the _Trader_. With any luck, they think we’re dead - but we can’t count on it.” She made a little motion with her fingers. 

“So you think we should do what, walk?” said Jane. “Through this forest, then over the mountains?” 

Fletcher’s head rolled to the side; dark eyes watched her carefully. “That is exactly what we should do.” 

Jane grimaced.

“It’s ambitious,” Fletcher conceded.

“That’s one way to describe it,” growled Jane, gesturing pointedly. “We don’t have food, or warm clothes, or shoes.”

“We can get them,” said Fletcher, quickly. “Coastguard stations are manned up and down this shoreline - one every six miles. If we walk for long enough, we’ll find one.” 

“Why?” said Jane, fiercely. “Why walk?” 

Fletcher pinned her with a burning gaze. “Listen to me, Fitzwilliams,” she said. “You have no idea what message is in this tube. But I do. Believe me when I say that this is the most important duty you will ever perform in your entire life.” 

“I know my duty,” snapped Jane. “Tell me who to protect you from, and I’ll do it. So far though, you haven’t told me a Tides-damned thing.”

They glared at one another. Between them, the fire spluttered as the flame caught on another block of driftwood.

“It’s difficult,” said Fletcher, finally. “There is a lot I can’t tell you. Suffice to say there is much wrong in Drustvar - you cannot trust anyone. Reaching Lady Sarah is vitally important.”

Jane let her head fall back against the log. “Great.” 

Fletcher shot her a narrow look. “No other questions? No objections, or arguments?”

“My orders are to protect the mail,” groused Jane. “And apparently that mail refuses to be rescued by a boat. So we’ll walk.”

“Excellent,” said Fletcher, pleased. “I knew you’d come around.”

There was silence again. 

“What’s your first name, by the way?” asked Fletcher. “It seems like something I should know when we’re pretending to be married.”

There was a pause. Jane leaned forward. “What,” she said, flatly.

“Really?” marvelled Fletcher. “Unusual. But certainly not the strangest name I’ve ever heard.”

“No,” said Jane, exasperated. “No, I- what do you mean, pretending we’re married?”

Fletcher gave her a pitying look. “Why else would we be together? Do keep up, Fitzwilliams.”

“Friends,” said Jane, outraged. “We could be friends!”

“Friends who look like us, travelling alone? Please,” scoffed Fletcher. “No. You’re my wife, and I’m bringing you back to Drustvar.”

Jane made an inarticulate, strangled noise.

“To be honest, it’s actually perfect,” mused Fletcher. “If I am connected to you, then I will be protected.” She eyed Jane, critically. “And vice versa.”

“Protected,” repeated Jane, flatly. 

“Indeed so.” nodded Fletcher. “All very neat, if I do say so myself. And so if all that is settled-?” She waved her hand again, looking interested. There was an expectant pause.

“Fitzjane,” mumbled Jane. “But no one calls me that. Jane is fine.”

Fletcher nodded again, closing her eyes. “Understood.” 

“And I’m no good at acting,” said Jane, grouchily. “You should know that part up front.”

“It’s fine,” Fletcher said, yawning and snuggling down. “I’m good enough for both of us.”

“Hmm,” said Jane.

“Go to sleep,” said Fletcher, drowsily. “Tomorrow will be here soon enough.”

Jane grimaced again, but tucked back by the log, pulling her arms around herself. The wind rustled through the trees. Fletcher began to snore softly against her tree, Jane’s jacket still wrapped around her. The fire burned on. Eventually, Jane managed a fretful doze, one eye open, ears straining through the dark.

The creeping light of dawn was enough to bring Jane fully awake again - alongside the cold. During the night, the fire had burned low, into a heap of dying coals.

Staggering to her feet, muscles protesting, Jane headed for the trickle of drinking water.

The forest water tasted like dirt. The trickle was difficult to bring to her mouth, and half of everything seemed to spill over Jane’s pants and shirt. Jane drank greedily anyway, throwing it over her hair - she could taste the salt as droplets dribbled down her face.

When she got back, Fletcher was awake, and kicking dirt over every inch of the fire. 

“Ready to go?” Jane asked.

Fletcher eyed the firepit critically - then kicked some more dirt, burying it completely. “I certainly am,” she said. “Follow me, please.” She turned and marched off into the woods, brushing aside small branches, sure-footed as a deer. 

Jane moved after her. Her bare feet coped well on patches of leaves - but mostly the forest was sharp sticks and stabby rocks. Occasionally, as a change of pace, Jane would stumble over a branch. Each tree looked identical. Only the roar of the sea comforted her - periodically, she could catch glimpses of it through the trees.

The sun rose higher; dappled light fell through to the forest floor. Fletcher called a short halt next to running water. After drinking deeply, some time was spent examining both their feet. Fletcher had looked at Jane’s, pursed her lips, then followed the water down to a sandy beach. They walked along this for a while, speaking of inconsequential things, before climbing up into the trees again as the beach became cliffs.

“We can’t be far away now,” said Fletcher confidently, jumping neatly up and over a fallen log. 

Jane heaved herself over the same log, falling heavily to the other side. Up through the trees, she could see the crest of the small spur.

Fletcher scampered to the top like a goat, and paused at the top. She turned, smiling wide, her hair oak-bright in the sunshine. “Now this will please you,” she said. “Come see.”

Jane climbed up the last few feet - and there ahead was the Coastguard station, squat and heavy atop a rocky outcrop. Behind it ran a dirt road which led off into the trees.

“Just as I promised you,” said Fletcher, voice warm with satisfaction. She swept into a low bow, flaring Jane’s jacket out dramatically. “After you.”

Jane’s lips twitched up into the ghost of a smile, quite involuntarily. She shuffled forward. 

The trees in front of the station had been cleared. A couple of horses grazed the grass, and outbuildings huddled together off to one side. There was a clear view down to the ocean.

The grass was delicious against Jane’s sore feet. She trudged up the fence-line, rounding the corner post to see the Station door was open. A Kul Tiran woman was staring at her, curiously. Her gaze switched to Fletcher, then back to Jane again.

“Hello,” she called out, in a soft Drust accent. “Are you lost?”

“Yes,” said Jane. “Our yacht was wrecked along the shore.”

The woman clucked her tongue, shaking her head. “That big squall was a funny one.”

“Yes,” said Jane again. She shook out her legs, leaning up against a handy post. “But now we’ve not got any food, or supplies.”

The woman looked her over, then glanced back to Fletcher. “But you have your lives,” she said, not unkindly. “And we can help. Come inside - bring your hireling along also.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” said Jane cooly, straightening. “My wife and I would be delighted.” Her eyes narrowed.

The woman cleared her throat. “Your wife. Of course.” She looked embarrassed, stepping back from the door, waving her arm. “Be welcome here, both of you.” 

Fletcher had walked up behind her, and gently took Jane’s hand. “Darling,” she said lightly. “You assured me of the Coastguard's goodness and kindness - please don’t grumble on my account.” Then she made fierce eye-contact.

Jane fought her scowl down. With perfect politeness, and much protesting from the stiff muscles in her shoulders and back, she offered a gallant arm. Fletcher took it. Side by side, they ascended the stairs together, under the eyes of the Coastguard officer They broke apart only for the door. 

After the bright outdoor sunshine, the building’s interior seemed dimly lit. Large brass binoculars lay uncapped on a windowsill facing the sea, and a desk with a journal sat in one corner. The furniture was spare - a bookshelf, and dining table along one wall, complete with three chairs. One of these chairs was filled by a man reading a novel - he looked up when they entered. 

“You look like you’ve seen the wars,” he said, hastily closing the book. “I’ll call Magda out.” 

He jumped to his feet, rushing over to knock on a closed wooden door. “Magda?” he called. “Could we have some tea, please?”

The door opened. Inside was a woman, dressed in a crisp white apron, and she peered around the lintel. Dark eyes took in Jane disinterestedly - then caught on Fletcher. “Of course, Sir,” she said evenly, in the burr of deepest Drustvar. “Fresh bread also.” 

“Thank you,” he said, before turning back to Jane. “Please, pull up a seat.”

Jane tugged one out for Fletcher, then sat gratefully down on the other. The man sat back down eagerly, and the woman leaned up against the windowsill. Clearly this was the most excitement they had seen for a while.

“If you were shipwrecked in the storm yesterday, then you were lucky to survive the night,” said the woman, tapping the windowsill. “It’s perishing cold water out there in the Sounds.”

“Yes,” agreed Jane. “Most lucky. We made a fire, and were sheltered by it.” Almost without thinking, she pulled the tinderbox free - her thumb traced the familiar anchor engraved upon the lid.

“Fortunate,” said the man, slowly. He stared at the anchor - then looked up, and nodded at her.

Jane frowned slightly, tucking the box away.

A knock came from the kitchen door, then the cook was back, carrying a tray heaped with food. A battered clay teapot threatened to slide off one side, and four pewter mugs were hooked in various fingers.

“Thank you, Magda,” said the man, gratefully. “Please put it on the table.”

There was silence as she poured out the tea. Then she left the room again.

Jane nudged the plate of bread closer to Fletcher, snaffling an apple for herself. Fletcher smiled at her, and passed back a slab of cheese. 

“You’ll have to stay here tonight,” said the man, leaning back. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a large key and placing it on the table. “We will outfit you with gear from the cache. Then if you hike to Fallhaven, you can catch the regular service through to Corlain.”

“Thank you,” said Jane, swallowing her cheese. “That would be a great kindness.”

“No trouble,” said the man, waving this off. “Lady Jaina hasn’t visited us for a long time - the supplies will hardly be missed.” He leaned back, looking wistful. “Perhaps she will again, one day.” 

A sudden knock came from the kitchen door - the man raised his eyebrows in surprise, and shared a startled glance with the woman.

“Magda?” he said. 

The cook poked her head back into the common room. “Sir and madams.”

“Can we help you, Magda?” The Kul Tiran woman said, sounding puzzled. 

“Clothes, ma’am,” she said, sending a long look Fletcher’s way. “I have some nice things that will fit the young lady, if she’ll come.” 

Fletcher tilted her head in curiosity - then rose, gathering up the tray.

“See you soon, dear one,” she said, dropping an easy kiss behind Jane’s ear.

“Hmm,” said Jane, hands spasming around her tea-mug. “Y- yes. Soon.”

The cook hustled Fletcher through the door - then closed it firmly.

Jane took another sip of tea from her mug, clearing her throat nervously, avoiding eye contact. The heat of her blush crawled up her face. When she dared a glance, both officers were smothering smiles.

“So how long have you been married to your lady?” asked the man, seemingly at random. 

“Recently,” mumbled Jane. “A real whirlwind. We met in Boralus.”

“Boralus.” The woman leaned back, sighing wistfully. “Now that’s a place to see. I’ve never been.”

Jane frowned. She set her cup down, slowly, then rested both hands on the table. “Listen,” she said. “Something weird is going on here. I want to know what it is.”

The man paused, then barked a laugh. “Spoken like a true Marine!”

Jane looked at him blankly.

“I recognised the tinderbox,” he said, looking pleased with himself. “Only Marines have those.”

“Yes,” said Jane, impressed – she’d actually won it in a game of dice. “A Marine. As the Lord Admiral commands.”

The man looked approving. “So where do you want us to start?” he said. “Do you know anything about the local politics?”

Jane stared at him. Then she picked back up her mug of tea, deliberately. “Got anything stronger?”

The man laughed again. The woman pulled a half-bottle of gunpowder rum from the bookshelf, and walked forward to pour a generous tot into her cup. 

Jane downed it in one long pull. “So tell me,” she said, wiping off her mouth, “how politics will trouble my wife while we’re in Drustvar.”

The woman’s face took on an anxious cast. “Home rule,” she said. “Rebellion. Drust witchery.”

“Patriotism,” said the man, sounding uncertain. “Loyalty. Tradition.”

Jane had not had enough rum for this conversation. “All right.” She stared into her mug. “I guess we should start with the witchery.” 

“The High Thornspeaker Cynethryth is abroad,” said the woman. She looked off into the distance, troubled. “Some say in the hopes of firing the Drust against Kul Tiras. Others say it’s just to do whatever it is that Druids normally do.”

“Lord White has that in hand,” the man said, confidently. “If it’s wrongness then he’ll put it down, just like his wife’s ancestors, with that sword of his. And if it’s right, then he won’t.”

“So that’s the rebellion part,” said Jane, grimacing. Her hands itched for her truncheon. 

“Mm,” said the woman. “Maybe? Home rule works into it as well.”

There was a quiet moment - both officers looked hesitant. “There hasn’t been word,” said the man, finally. “The Lord Admiral hasn’t sent a decision one way or the other. Maybe she never will.” He took a sip from his mug.

Jane glanced at them both in turn, then pushed her chair back and stood. “I wish you the best of luck with all that,” she said. “I’m going to Corlain, where we’ll visit my wife’s family, then head straight back to Boralus.”

“Have a care, Marine,” said the man, softly. “Your lady is Drust - and she hasn’t told you everything. You might find yourself staying here longer than you expect.”

Jane paused, then inclined her head. “Thanks for the warning, but we have sound reasons to go. Speaking of which, does the supply cache have anything a mother-in-law might like?”

The officers laughed again - the woman actually slapped her leg. Then the man stood up as well. “Let’s go find out,” he grinned.

The cache turned out to be a cornucopia. The two officers lit storm lanterns, and pointed Jane around the little building; in no time at all she had two rucks down from the wall, and was digging through piles of clothing and gear. When she exited the building it was covered in dust, loaded down with things, and stomping happily about in a pair of new boots.

“Thank you,” she said, with real gratitude. “We can’t begin to repay you.”

“Thank the Lord Admiral. It’s her stuff,” said the man. “Technically speaking, that is.”

Jane paused. Her memories of Willa basically revolved around fighting off her attempts to steal dessert, and also of her pushing Jane out of a rowboat that one time.

“Hmm,” she said, hitching the pack up to be more comfortable.

They strode up the path towards the Station.

“Now the only thing left to offer is a hot dinner for you and your missus,” said the man, in a satisfied tone. “Followed by a mattress for you both right in front of the fire.”

Jane jerked, eyes widening.

“We shifted down the one from my bed,” said the woman, grandly. “It’s bigger.”

“Oh, that’s-” said Jane, clearing her throat. “That’s generous of you.”

The woman nodded. Her expression made it clear the whole thing was an act of impressive largess. 

Jane halted outside the station door, and started fussing with the pack’s strap. The two Kul Tirans walked in - Jane took the opportunity to take a few deep breaths, and smooth down her expression. Then she nudged the door open with her foot, piling the gear neatly beside the door.

Fletcher was standing in the middle of the common room, chatting to the cook in Drūish, still dressed in Jane’s jacket. Two sets of dark eyes swung around as Jane entered – the conversation trailed off.

Then Fletcher smiled. “Hello again,” she said in Common, warmth streaking through her voice. “How did finding supplies go?”

“Very well indeed,” said Jane in satisfaction. “They had everything we needed.” She stepped forward

Abruptly, her arms were full of warm, well-disguised postal officer. Fletcher had darted across the room, and thrown herself tight in against Jane’s body, cuddling close. Her head was tucked in the crook of Jane’s neck, leaving her mouth just beside an ear.

“Be careful,” she breathed, soft as a deer’s footfall. “We’re being hunted.” Her arms wrapped around Jane’s back, squeezing for emphasis.

Jane’s gaze sharpened. She wrapped her arms around Fletcher, and began to rock her back and forth, gently. “We’ve been offered a mattress down here alone in the common room, beloved,” she said, trying to sound sweet but not knowing if she achieved it. “I’m sure we’ll sleep just fine.” Her eyes slid down to see if this message had made it - the only thing she could see was brown hair.

Then there was the faintest brush of skin against her neck; Fletcher had nodded, so minutely it was almost imagination. Her arms fell away. Jane dropped her own embrace as well, stepping back. 

“Let me bring you some food,” Fletcher said wearily, turning to head back out into the kitchen. 

Jane turned back to the two Kul Tirans, who were making a great show of looking elsewhere. “Being shipwrecked was difficult,” she said, apologetically. “I’m sure you understand.”

Both Kul Tirans nodded. “I remember my first shipwreck,” the woman said, looking especially sympathetic. 

The kitchen door swung open yet again. The two Drust returned, bringing forks, plates, and a dish of pie. Fraught negotiation ensued, where the officers attempted to insist their guests take two of the three seats - Jane just as firmly insisted she would stand, and eat after everyone else was done. Finally a compromise was achieved - the man headed out to eat with the cook in the kitchen. Everyone else settled in to eat. 

The pie was achingly delicious. But perhaps that was because Jane’s last meal had been a handful of berries and an unsalted rabbit.

Finally the last of the crust was devoured, and the dishes were cleared away. It was early, but the Kul Tiran woman yawned, and bid them goodnight - she had held the early watch. The man poured a dollop of rum for each of them, then excused himself to bed as well – he snaffled a novel as he went. His steps were heavy as he followed his fellow officer up the wooden stairwell to the dormitory. 

Jane gestured to the mattress, leaning back in her chair. “You take that.”

Fletcher frowned, sitting down on it. “You’re not planning to sleep over here?”

“No,” Jane said, intent. Her voice dropped to a low murmur. “I can’t sleep at all - if we’re leaving during the night, it needs to be carefully timed. One of us needs to be awake, or we’ll both sleep through.”

Fletcher’s frown morphed into an incredulous look. “Jane,” she said. “Magda’s the one who told us we’re in danger. She’s going to wake us up when she goes to make bread.”

“Oh,” said Jane, blinking. “Right.”

“You need to sleep,” said Fletcher, firmly. “When was the last time you got more than a few hours?”

Jane frowned, thinking.

“Exactly,” said Fletcher. “Come over here.” She patted the mattress invitingly.

Jane walked over, and sat. The mattress was pretty comfortable. Swinging her legs off the floor only made it all the softer and more agreeable. There were shuffling sounds as Fletcher got in next to her, and wriggled around.

“G’night,” mumbled Jane.

“Sweet dreams,” replied Fletcher. 

Jane slept.

Then suddenly she was completely awake, rolling out of the blankets like a snake. Her hand dived for her belt - it was empty.

Magda stepped back, letting her arm fall - she sunk into shadows, her silhouette seeming to resist the light of the moon. “You are awake,” she said, voice low. “Good. You must leave.”

Jane turned. 

Fletcher had also bolted upright, and was now shrugging quickly into Jane’s jacket. Nimble fingers danced across the buttons - in a flash, Jane realised it was large enough to hide the postal belt beneath it. 

“Take care of yourself,” Fletcher said to the woman. “If you’re cornered, tell them everything.”

“Go,” the woman replied. “Go now!”

Jane hastily threw on her overcoat, then snatched up the heavier pack. The outside air was cold, and the stars shone crisply down - darkness shrouded everything. 

Fletcher jumped down the stairs to join her, hitching up her own pack. “Let’s be off,” she said quietly. “Quickly now. We’ve got to be as far down the road as we can before the hunters arrive - listen out as hard as you can.”

Jane nodded, then set off down the path. The dirt track joined onto a surprisingly well-maintained gravel road, running away towards the east. The moon was bright, lighting their way.

Fletcher began to jog. Jane trotted along behind her, breathing evenly. She strained every sense, turning her head this way and that, working for every small sound. She heard nothing.

The pace was punishing, especially in new boots; Jane settled in for the pain of it. Fletcher held up surprisingly well - her breathing became laboured, and the scuffing of her boots became louder as the miles wore away. Otherwise she set the pace.

They carried on up the road. The moon began to dip, sliding down towards the trees. Jane’s legs screamed, but she didn’t stop, or slow. 

Suddenly, from ahead of them, there was a faint, muffled, almost tapping noise. Jane halted sharply, flinging up a hand. Fletcher stopped as well, grim-faced. Together, they listened. 

The jingle of tack cut through the night.

Fletcher twisted around like lightning, teeth bared in a silent snarl. Then she grabbing Jane’s hand, yanking her towards a copse of trees.

Jane stumbled. Then she dropped the hand and launched into a dead sprint for cover. She vaulted over some few brambles, like a hurdler, and on the other side paused to awkwardly pull her blanket free. This was dropped carelessly. Then she raced further into the trees. The pack itself was unceremoniously thrown behind a thick patch of bush.

“There,” she hissed - then fell prone, leopard-crawling back towards the blanket.

Fletcher tossed her pack behind a massive tree, then dived beneath the blanket too, pulling it over them both. They lay flat, panting quietly.

Jane could feel her heart thumping. The air under the blanket quickly grew stuffy. She wriggled her head forward slightly, just enough to get some air, careful of the blanket’s hem. The point was to hide shine and shadow, so they could get a look - the rug would only do that if it was kept low. 

From the road came the soft sound of nickering of horses, and hoofbeats. These slowly grew louder, alongside metallic clinks from poorly muffled tack. Gravel occasionally crunched under a horse’s shoe, loud in the stillness. Around them in the forest, the sounds of animals and insects died away. 

Fletcher tensed - a hand crept up to grip Jane’s arm, tightly. 

Jane was frozen, straining every sense for more information. The silence seemed oppressive. Leaves tickled her stomach and nose. But between the brambles, she had quite a good view - the moon was throwing light over the entire road. 

Four riders came trotting past, heading in the direction of the station. Blue cloaks shrouded their shape, and their hoods were pulled up. For a second Jane thought she was looking at Tidesages - then noticed the blackened swords strapped onto each of them. Their leader carried an unlit torch, not a staff, and occasionally one of them would turn to scan the roadside. One such face turned their way, almost careless.

For an instant, Jane couldn’t work out what she was looking at. Then the head tilted back, letting the moonlight fall more evenly - it was a mask. Grotesque walrus-tusks flared over squid-like tentacles. Only the eye-slits set above them seemed remotely human. 

Then the face turned past, looking up and along the road.

Jane glanced around, slowly. A couple of suitable tree-branches lay nearby, alongside a fairly large rock. Her eyes narrowed consideringly, lingering on the horses and scabbards. Her muscles bunched, ready to spring.

The riders continued past, oblivious. 

Fletcher was still gripping her arm, even as the masked figures disappeared off down the road. Jane waited until they were well gone - then waited a little longer. Only once it was clear they would not turn back did she relax, and look at Fletcher. 

Dark eyes stared back, unblinkingly.

“Don’t worry,” murmured Jane. “They would never have found us wearing those dumb things over their eyes.”

Fletcher deliberately dragged her hand down Jane’s arm, folding their hands together. “I actually wasn’t holding onto you for my sake,” she said, sounding indulgent. “I was holding you back for theirs.”

Jane blinked, then snorted with quiet laughter, dropping her head into the leaf-litter. “Well,” she said. “It would have been the fastest way to get horses.”

“Temptation itself,” said Fletcher. “However a missing patrol would probably prompt questions.” Her fingers twitched against Jane’s hand. 

Jane squeezed back gently, then untangled her hand to help her get up. “Are we off then?”

“That would seem wise,” said Fletcher, also rising, brushing leaves from her jacket. “They will be back shortly, once they realise their quarry has escaped.” 

Jane rolled the blanket quickly, strapping it back in place. “So the road’s patrolled,” she said, swinging the pack up. “And the sea is off-limits. What’s the next logical step?”

Fletcher ducked behind the tree to pick up her own pack, hefting it in her hands. “Perhaps I know somewhere,” she said slowly. “It is nearby – and full of people who will help us. We would be safe there, for a little while.”

“Sound’s good,” said Jane, shaking out her foot. “Let’s go then.”

Fletcher gave her an odd look. “It might not be that simple. “

Jane tilted her head, waiting.

Fletcher frowned, silent for a second – then she breathed out, heavily. “We would travel through the forest.” 

“Right,” said Jane. “That makes sense.”

Fletcher huffed. “You don’t understand. There are… certain trees.”

Jane looked at her, flatly. Then she waved her arm at the tree trunk next to her

”Special trees,” said Fletcher, sharply. “Trees one would be well advised to avoid.”

“Right,” said Jane again. There didn’t seem anything to say to that. She hooked her pack up higher on her shoulders.

“We’ll have to be careful,” said Fletcher, almost to herself. “Stay as close to me as to your own shadow.” She set off, cutting across the road. The woods on the other side seemed darker, somehow - the road had been cut wide around it, and the trees had been cleared back further. 

Jane plunged into the underbrush after her; the canopy closed in above them both, blocking out the moonlight. Shadows clung. There was no clear path, and the undergrowth was thick and choking.

Jane ducked beneath a branch, then grappled with a wayward vine. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, but it didn’t help much. 

Fletcher was ahead of her, walking slowly. Her going was much easier - somehow she slipped from shadow to shadow, clearing rocks and avoiding brambles. Her pace was easy and steady. Jane stumbled after her.

The forest was alive. It breathed. Jane kept spotting creatures shifting from the corner of her eye, hurrying under leaves and up tree trunks. Occasionally large shapes would seem to flicker in the darkness, but when she looked it proved to be an illusion. A wind blew through the leaves above, gently, sending the canopy rippling. Jane’s foot slipped often, revealing the damp loom beneath. There were no landmarks.

Fletcher continued to walk forward, confident and even. Occasionally she would stop, and cock her head as if listening to something. Then she would start walking again. They reached a small rise, and Fletcher jumped to the top, walking behind a tree.

Jane scrambled up the slope as well, turning around the same tree. Then she stopped, head swivelling.

Fletcher was gone.

Jane turned entirely around, looking for broken twigs or bent leaves - there was nothing. It was like no one had ever been there. “Fletcher?” she called, uneasily. “Fletcher!” She turned around again, one more time. The forest was silent. 

Jane took a deep breath. They had been walking for at least two hours in the dark of a trackless wood - there was no way she would find her way back to the road. Fletcher had to be around here somewhere. She had to be. Jane didn’t know where they were going.

Jane breathed deeply, thinking carefully. Then she turned to the tree.

“My apologies - uh - Ms Tree,” she said, haltingly. “Sir Tree? Honourable one?” She trailed off. Then she stared at the trunk and felt stupid.

She took another deep breath, clearing her throat, shifting her weight from side to side. “I’m not here to cause trouble, Honourable Tree. I’m just here to guard the mail.”

The tree did nothing. 

“I’m not sure what use the mail is to a tree,” said Jane. “But if you want me to carry a branch or something for you someplace, I could do that?”

The tree, again, did nothing.

“Only there’s a lady around here somewhere,” said Jane miserably. “A Drust lady - you probably like her better. If you know where she is, it would be good to find her.”

“Talking to trees now?” said Fletcher, walking up from behind her. In the darkness, her expression was unreadable. “Are you making friends with this oak?”

“Maybe,” grumbled Jane. “It looks very noble.”

Fletcher stood still for a moment – then turned to go.

Jane hesitated. Then she awkwardly bowed to the tree, scooping up a branch. “Thank you.” She shoved the piece of wood into the top of her pack.

Fletcher had stopped again, motionless in the dark. “Do keep up,” she said, neutrally. “Getting lost here would be fatal.”

“Noted,” said Jane, striding after her.

The going was easier now, Fletcher seeming to pick more forgiving paths, with fewer whipping vines and low-hanging branches. Jane stoically struggled along, listening to the hooting of owls and the chirp of nocturnal insects. At one point a mosquito bit her. 

Dawn was not far off. The trees started to lighten in colour; a low-slung mist started to rise. Tendrils of fog swirled around Jane’s feet, playfully. The rocks began to spear upwards, and the ground sloped. More light made it through the trees to partially pierce the gloom.

They walked. Then they walked some more. They stopped to have a drink from a cool stream, and chow down on some dried rations – then they resumed walking.

Fletcher began to talk, easily, of nothing in particular - books she had read, food she had liked. Jane listened with interest; the diversion made sore feet feel lighter, and the company more cheering.

Sometime in the afternoon, Fletcher stopped.

Jane almost ran into the back of her. “Trouble?” she said, coming alert.

“Maybe,” said Fletcher. “And maybe not.”

Jane rolled her eyes to herself. 

“We’re almost upon our hosts,” continued Fletcher, ignoring her. “And so it’s time to talk about our destination.”

Jane raised her eyebrows, hooking her hands into her pack-straps. “You’re actually going to tell me something?”

“The tone of surprise is unflattering,” mused Fletcher. “But probably justified. Yes - you need to know this. We’re near the border of an apple orchard, occupied by the ap Jac family. They are old Drust. It might be best to downplay your more… martial qualities while we’re there.”

Jane grimaced. “Do I have other qualities?”

“We’ll improvise,” said Fletcher, airily. “Follow my lead.”

“Right,” said Jane.

Fletcher gave her another reassuring smile, then walked forward into the trees again. Jane didn’t hesitate - she plunged after, letting the forest swallow her up. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure that Fletcher could have found some other solution to the whole "why would two hotties be walking through the woods together" conundrum - but, uh, she didn't.


	4. Chapter 4

Jane fought her way through the dense underbrush. Branches slapped at her face, and the leaves were unforgiving - but after several minutes, slope under her feet levelled off. The bigger trees fell behind, replaced by smaller saplings and brambles, and the canopy thinned. Fletcher disappeared ahead. 

Abruptly, Jane burst out of what was apparently a hedge. Above her beamed down the late summer sun, and in front of her were neat rows of apple trees. 

Fletcher was peering up at one of the apples; she turned at the sound of Jane’s muffled cursing, gesturing at the apples admiringly. “Splendid!” she said, enthusiastically. “Simply splendid. Alys has outdone herself this year.” 

Jane nodded, shaking the leaves out from down her coat - then she took off her hat to pick the twigs from her hair. Sweat stung against the fresh scratches on her arms, and everything smelled like mown grass. 

Fletcher breathed deeply - her exhale was pure satisfaction. “We have made excellent time,” she said. “Just in time for dinner, actually. What is your father’s name?”

“It was Fitzharold,” said Jane, still picking twigs out of her coat. “Why are you asking?”

Fletcher bounced on her heels, smiling back at her. “No mystery - we just need it for formal introductions.” Her face melted into a rueful smile. “But of course, your family would be stubborn enough to commit to a theme. Harold will have to suffice.” 

“We do our best,” Jane said, hitching up her pack. “Should we be going? Dinner sounds good.”

“Wisdom spills from you like water,” Fletcher said. “I’m hungry myself.” She hooked her hands through the straps of her own pack, walking off into the line of apple trees. Jane followed, boots scuffing through piles of cut grass, cautiously scanning the orchard for danger.

About half-way towards the next hedgerow, Fletcher pulled off her own hat, fanning herself with it as she walked. Her pace, which had been brisk, began to slow - she tilted her head cheerfully. “ _Who’s there now?”_ she called, in friendly Drūish. _“Is it Alys?”_

 _“Auntie Alys is in the barn.”_ A child appeared - her shy eyes peeked at them from around a tree. _“Mama says I’m not to talk to Kul Tirans though, because they might take me away.”_

 _“Good thing I am not Kul Tiran then,”_ said Fletcher, coming to a halt and smiling. _“Young Drust should listen to their mamas. Where is this barn?”_

 _“Over there,"_ said the child, pointing behind them. _“But you’ve got a Kul Tiran though.”_

 _“I will make sure she doesn’t take you,”_ Fletcher promised.

Jane was having trouble following the exchange; it was quick, and the dialect was unusual. But the general gist was clear. She cleared her throat and attempted to look harmless.

Fletcher turned at the sound - one of her eyebrows rose.

Jane slouched down, thrusting her hands into her pockets, attempting an inoffensive smile - her coat bunched uncomfortably up at the back of her neck. For an instant, she thought she’d done quite well - then her pack slid off her back a little, and she struggled a little as her hands got caught in her pants. 

Fletcher raised the other eyebrow. Something flickered in her eyes. “We’re off now, Jane,” she said. “Stay close to me, please.” She waved to the child, then started walking again

Jane nodded to the child seriously, then strode after Fletcher. Back at home, children had liked her - she had kept a tin of boiled lollies in her pocket for that exact purpose. But strange Drust children, with wary eyes and a penchant for trees, were entirely outside her experience. 

There was silence for a while. They walked with only the soft sounds of boots treading on grass, and quiet breathing breaking the stillness. A bee buzzed lazily past.

“Is Drūish your native tongue?” Jane asked idly. 

“Yes indeed,” answered Fletcher, with a hint of pride. “It was the language of all my family.” She turned up another hedgerow, pointing at a narrow roof just visible above the trees. “That must be the house.”

Jane looked at her, puzzled. “A house? Weren’t we looking for a barn?”

“Oh, yes,” said Fletcher absently. “That’s right.” Her head tilted, and her eyes focused intently into nothing. “But perhaps it’s a good idea for us to wait here instead.” She stopped.

Jane stumbled to a halt as well, even more confused. “What? Why? What’s going on?” 

“Peace, Jane,” said Fletcher softly. “We are in no danger.”

 _“There might be some danger,”_ rumbled a new voice. _“I haven’t entirely decided yet.”_

Jane whirled, hands clutching at the straps of her pack.

From behind another tree stepped a massive farmer, dressed in worn clothing. She was holding a freshly broken shovel - ropey muscles stood out as she gripped it. Dark eyes swept across them, taking in everything. 

The tree trunk she had appeared from was ludicrously thin - Jane stared at it, wondering what trick of the light she had used to hide behind it.

 _“Alys ferch Bowen ap Jac,”_ said Fletcher, smiling wide, raising her hands in greeting. _“It has been a long time!”_

 _“Cyn Arth ferch Owen,”_ the farmer replied, warmly. _“An honour - it has indeed been too long. Be welcome.”_

They clasped hands, shaking with real affection.

 _“And could I introduce you to Jane ferch Harold?”_ Fletcher said, pulling away and waving in Jane’s direction. _“Formerly of Boralus.”_

Two sets of Drust eyes turned on her. Jane cleared her throat, and dipped her head respectfully. Fletcher nodded, just slightly - a trace of approval crossed her face.

Alys frowned. One massive hand tapped against the broken handle of the shovel. _“An odd choice to bring a Kul Tiran here now, Cyn.”_

“Not really,” said Fletcher, easily, with a small wave. “She is my wife, and I am bringing her home through the mountains.”

Alys froze. Her eyes went wide - her mouth fell open in surprise. Massive hands tightened around the shovel, and she stared at Jane. Then she turned to Fletcher, still looking amazed. _“Wife? This Kul Tiran is your wife? But-”_

“I, er,” said Jane. 

Both Drust turned back to her. Alys glowered at her, heavily; a flash of alarm darted through Fletcher’s eye.

“Your shovel is-” Jane motioned to the handle. “It’s broken.”

“Yes,” rumbled Alys. Her frown deepened. Her voice was a thick burr.

“Can I offer you…” Jane said, hesitantly. “Would this be useful?” She reached up and pulled off her pack, swinging it down to the ground. The oak branch from the tree in the forest was strapped awkwardly along the outside, sticking out above the rolled blanket. Jane tugged it free, turning it over in her hands. Then she offered it up.

Alys stepped forward. After a second’s hesitation she took the branch, hefting it consideringly. There was a pause.

“Your wife,” she said, turning away from Jane. “I will speak for her.”

Fletcher smiled, clearly pleased. “Thank you, Alys.”

“Be welcome,” said Alys, deliberately. Then she walked off behind the tree again. 

Jane pulled up her pack again, and fussed with it, clearing her throat - when she was finally satisfied enough time had passed, she looked up. The farmer had vanished back into the rows of trees, as if she had never been. There was only silence. 

Jane stood still, contemplating the spaces between the trees. 

“Simply excellent,” said Fletcher, cheerfully. “That went very well indeed.” 

Jane looked at her, steadily. “That lady was-”

“-just saying that this orchard is safe for you,” nodded Fletcher. She gave Jane a meaningful look. “And we now have time to plan out our next move. But not much time - if we are here long then we will place the ap Jac’s in grave danger.”

Jane turned back to the tree rows. Her brow furrowed. “Hmm,” she said. 

Fletcher stepped forward again, voice lowering. “A word of warning for you?”

“Hmm?” said Jane, eyes sharpening. “Yes?”

“This place,” Fletcher said, then paused. “Take care. It can be strange.”

“Thank you,” Jane said, dryly. “However would I have guessed.” 

Fletcher laughed, shaking her head. Then she patted Jane on the shoulder reassuringly, and began to walk again.

The sun began to set, slowly, turning the sky to streaks of fire. The barn grew bigger, looming up out of the increasing gloom, until its roof-line towered over the rows of apple trees. The timbers used to build it were massive - almost as big as the planking on a man o’ war. From inside came the sound of music, laughter, and rolling barrels.

Fletcher slapped the frame of the door, calling out heartily to those inside. Jane stopped to drop her pack behind a stack of logs, then walked inside as well.

The barn was large, cold, and poorly lit - great hogsheads of apples lay everywhere. Trinkets hung from the rafters - some wood, some bone. Jane could have sworn they flashed blue from the corner of her eyes. Underneath one particularly dense cluster was a woman playing the harp, picking out a lively tune. People in homespun clothing were sitting on anything flat, most with flagons in their hands. Dark eyes had turned their way from every side, and Fletcher was being hailed with warm smiles and low greetings. 

These faltered on seeing Jane. The music twanged to a stop. Some faces were openly confused, some horrified. On a very few, those rising slowly to their feet, expressions were turning cold. A small, angry muttering rose.

“Hmm,” said Jane, thoughtfully. Then she turned and walked out of the barn.

A small man almost collided with her - a bespectacled, puffing Kul Tiran man, with a dark beard and kind eyes. “Hello,” he said, in a Boralus accent. “You’re new.” He peered at her.

“Yes,” said Jane, looking around at the rows of trees. “Do you live here?” 

“Oh, yes, I’m married too...” he lifted his arm, pointing into the barn. “...Dylan ap Carwyn. He’s in there somewhere.”

“Right,” Jane nodded. “Lovely. Anyway - goodbye.” She strode off into the trees. 

The man seemed befuddled for an instant. Then he rushed after her. “No, no, no, no, wait - it’s good to meet you, perhaps you could come with me, I was just…”

“Told to come fetch me, yes,” said Jane, absently. “Because the others want to talk to Fletcher in private.” 

She counted the rows, stalking past hundreds of identical apple trees. The man was still stuttering, so she ignored him. Instead she turned, peering at a particular tree.

The man drew himself up, trying to look stern. “Now, I really think that you-”

“What would break a Druid’s shovel, though?” mused Jane. Then she walked forward.

At first the orchard looked the same - endless trees, rank on rank marching down towards the large hedges which comprised the windbreaks. Dust had settled, and the dark clumps of mown grass lay sweet, fallen and tossed into great heaps. 

Jane took another step - then wondered why she was here, in the night. The grass was normal. She was tired. The barn hadn’t been too bad. This particular part of the orchard was boring. The Kul Tiran man seemed nice enough. 

For an instant, Jane thought she saw something back the way she’d come - a large shape, moving through the trees. A flicker of blue.

Her eyes narrowed, and she forced herself to focus. 

“You must come with me,” said the man, attempting even more sternness. “There is nothing here.”

“Hmm,” said Jane, turning back to the space in front of her. “Yes, well. Certainly someone is very much trying to convince me of that.” She lifted her boot and tried to step forward - it stopped mid-air, like it was caught. 

The man went silent - it sounded like he wasn’t breathing.

Jane pulled her boot back out of the air, dropping it back down. She considered the nearest grass heap. It had a careless quality to it - beyond it the next pile also looked thrown together. 

She frowned. “Huh.”

The man shivered. In the dusk, his apprehension was clear only in the lines of his shoulders. “What was that?”

Jane pointed at the grass heap - then the one behind it. “Are piles of grass normally absolutely identical?”

“Oh,” said the man. His expression was pure consternation. “Yes. Definitely.” 

Jane squinted; her eyes wanted to slide off the pile of grass, but she forced them to stay put. They began to water fiercely. Jane grit her teeth. Flicking blue snapped across the eyes of her eyes, and black spots bloomed. 

For an instant, the grass pile wavered and resolved. Jane almost saw a muddy hole; beside it was the merest hint of stacked crates - on them was stamped the tusked shield of the Trollish Royal Armoury.

Jane turned away, staggering and gasping. Her eyes burned, and her stomach heaved. For an instant she held her head in her hands, breathing deeply. Then she schooled her expression and turned back to the man, dashing the tears from her eyes. “Shall we return?”

“Yes!” said the man, emphatically. “Yes indeed! Right now!”

“No,” said another voice. “We will talk instead.”

Jane’s eyes were still watering - she blinked fiercely, trying to clear them. In front of her, still blurred slightly, was Alys. Her massive frame loomed up in the gathering dusk.

“Head back to Dylan now,” said Alys, nodding to the man. “I will escort our guest.”

Jane inclined her head to him, apologetic - he nodded back, then turned and scurried back up the rows of apple trees. There was silence for a long moment. Off in the distance, an owl hooted. 

“You are not her wife,” said Alys. 

“No,” said Jane, steadily. “I am not.”

Alys nodded. In the dusk, her massive frame was like one of the trees around her. “Then there is only one reason she would bring you to this orchard. Nothing else could be important enough to require you. Jane ferch Harold - Fitzjane Proudmoore.”

“Fitzwilliams,” snapped Jane.

“As you say.” Alys tilted her head, looking amused. “Perhaps if you say it enough, others will agree.” 

Jane gritted her teeth; but didn’t move. “You said you wanted to talk?”

“But there is nothing left to say,” Alys seemed to hesitate. “Except that if she succeeds then no action will be necessary.” She waved her hands towards the invisible stack of weapon crates. “The Kul Tirans, the High Thornspeaker - all will be in balance.”

Jane looked at her searchingly.

“You are our guest, and will come to no harm here,” said Alys, expression kind. “But you are not welcome in the barn. Forgive them, and leave them to bide.”

Jane jerked her head in acknowledgement. “Fair enough.”

Alys stepped back, and made a short gesture for Jane to exit the row. She didn’t follow.

The narrow laneway was dark and quiet; apple trees that had seemed friendly in the daylight crowded over her now, blocking out the rising moon. Jane dipped her head respectfully to them as she exited their ranks - the sounds of the barn drew closer. 

The Kul Tiran man was standing by the door. He peered at her worriedly, straightening a little bit like he was going to try and stop her.

Jane reached behind the woodpile, pulling her pack out. Without a word, she walked away.

It was actually difficult to find a place in the orchard where she could be sure she wouldn’t bother any trees. Finally she found a clearing by a well, next to a small field occupied by an unfriendly goat. One side of the well made a good tent-pole - an oiled tarp went up to keep the dew off, and a roll of bread smuggled from yesterday’s dinner took the edge from hunger. Then she rolled herself in a woolen blanket, and went to sleep. 

Her eyes cracked open to profound darkness, the sounds of shuffling - and a sudden muffled curse. The goat bleated indignantly. 

Jane pulled off the blanket and rolled from out under the tarp, shaking the stiffness from her limbs. “Who goes there?” she called softly.

“Jane?” said a voice. “Is that you? It’s me, Fletcher.”

Jane peered out - a figure was trudging across the field, half-hidden by the night.

“Advance,” she said, satisfied.

“Who says ‘who goes there?’” sighed Fletcher. “Jane, really - at least pretend to be a civilian.”

“Do civilians not say that?” said Jane, a little nonplussed. “They should. It’s very useful.”

Fletcher paused; in the darkness, her silhouette’s head tilted. “What are you doing out here, anyway? Alys told me they’d show you up to the house.”

“Didn’t want to interrupt,” said Jane. She turned, ducking back under the tarp.

There were more scuffing noises as Fletcher walked up - her shadow ducked down, resting on her heels. “What-?”

“I’m the Lord Admiral’s woman,” said Jane, voice firm.

Fletcher’s whole body radiated confusion. After a puzzled pause, she dropped to her hands and knees, crawling under the tarp as well. “Well yes, of course you are,” she said, slowly. “That’s why you’re here with me.”

There was a silence. 

“Did something happen?” asked Fletcher.

“I found a weapons cache,” said Jane. “Smuggled Trollish weapons, buried out between the apple trees.”

“Oh,” said Fletcher.

There was a long, pregnant silence. 

“Most things in Drustvar aren’t what they look like,” said Fletcher, softly.

“That’s good,” said Jane flatly. “Because it looks like rebellion.”

Fletcher’s face dissolved into grimacing shadows. “There are things going on that Lady Alex would have told you-”

“The Vice-Admiral of Boralus,” said Jane, sharply. “Told me absolutely nothing.” 

There was another silence under the tarp.

“It’ll all make sense at the end,” said Fletcher, soothingly. “It’s gone a bit wrong in places, but if we get to Corlain safely then it will make sense. Trust me.”

“What if I do nothing, and Drustvar goes up in flames?” said Jane, dragging her hand across her face. 

Fletcher’s shape seemed to pause in thought. “Well,” she said lightly. “If you do the wrong thing, then it surely will.” One fist was brought down on a knee, tapping gently. Suddenly, she looked up, triumphant. “Why not report it to Lady Grey?” she said, coaxingly. “Surely she is the proper authority? How very efficient - you would fulfil all your duties at once.”

Jane contemplated this logic - then sighed. 

“Excellent,” said Fletcher; satisfaction rode every line of her shoulders. 

“Are we safe here in the meantime?” grumbled Jane. 

Fletcher’s head tilted. “Of course we are. The ap Jacs have extended their hospitality. It would take an act of extreme impropriety for it to be retracted.”

Jane contemplated this doubtfully. She had just barged her way into the ap Jac’s trees to find their secret cache of illegal weapons. If that wasn’t improper guest behaviour in Drustvar, then she wasn’t sure what would be. 

Fletcher looked at her one last moment, then began to crawl back out from under the tarp.

“Wait,” Jane said. “Could you tell me something.”

Fletcher stopped again. “You know I likely can’t,” she said, sounding regretful.

“Not that,” said Jane, sitting up. “About the tree. Did that tree really want me to deliver its branch?”

Fletcher’s figure laughed softly, climbing out from under the tarp. “It was just a tree.”

“Hmm,” said Jane, scowling. “Well. Goodnight, Fletcher.”

“Goodnight Jane,” said Fletcher, fondly. “Sleep well.” Her shadow moved away in the dark, footsteps almost silent.

The night was long, and cold. Jane spent most of it staring up at nothing. Finally, fretfully, she dozed. When she awoke fully again, it was early. Her toes were frozen, and there was a child staring at her, peering under the tarp.

 _“What’re you doing?”_ asked the girl, brightly. 

Jane struggled up, yawning, theatrically rubbing her eyes _. “Sleeping. I wake now.”_

The girl giggled. _“Your accent is weird.”_

 _“That is both informative and interesting to me,”_ said Jane politely - then she lapsed into silence. Her spoken Drūish was not strong.

The girl looked at her inquisitively, tilting her head. _“Do you want an apple?”_

Jane brightened considerably. _“Please?”_

 _“Wait here.”_ The girl jumped up and raced away, returning with a fruit - Jane took it carefully, then crunched her way through with every enjoyment. 

_“All right, well - I’m going to feed the goat now. Goodbye.”_ The girl waved and darted away

 _“Goodbye,”_ Jane called after her. She had the uncomfortable feeling that giving her the apple might well be the same as feeding a goat.

She got up and broke down her small shelter. It was the work of a moment to shake the dew from the tarp, and roll up the blanket. Once everything was packed away neatly, she hoisted her pack once more and went searching for Fletcher.

The barn was no help; it was locked up, cold and quiet. Jane eyed its door warily as she passed. 

Beyond it was a farm road, flanked by hedges. 

Jane hitched up her pack and began to walk again, much more confidently. It was still early - the sun hadn’t quite risen fully - but the orchard rang with the sound of birds, and apple leaves turned golden in the early light.

The hedges soon gave way to a low stone wall, and a ditch - beyond it was a substantial farmhouse, rambling next to a series of outbuildings. Sitting on the porch, face turned up to the sun, was Fletcher. 

Jane walked closer, boots crunching on the gravel of the lane. 

Fletcher blinked her eyes open, and turned. “Hello, Jane.” Dark eyes assessed her carefully, lingering on her face. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes,” Jane told her, tired. “I was ordered to protect the mail, all the way to Lady Sarah - that’s what I’ll do.”

The door banged open - Jane looked up. 

The Kul Tiran man from the night before was standing in the doorway. “Hello,” he said cheerfully. “You must be hungry - we’ve made you breakfast.” A tray appeared like magic, and he held it up triumphantly.

The smell of cooked kipper wafted over; Jane’s mouth watered. Suddenly the apple seemed a long time ago. She wavered, looking at the plate. “Thank you,” she said regretfully. “But I’m not hungry.”

“Nonsense,” he said, peering at her through his glasses. “You had no dinner, no lunch, then spent the night sulking outside with those pesky ghosts. I’ll bring you some more toast.” He vanished back into the farmhouse.

Jane carefully did not ask about the ghosts. Instead she picked up a fork and tried the soft boiled egg. It was delicious. 

Fletcher sat down on the porch again, leaning up against a balustrade. There was silence as Jane took apart the eggs, then started in on the fish.

“I’m actually not sure where we should go next,” Fletcher said. “Which makes leaving slightly challenging.”

Jane looked up, chewing. She made a little querying gesture with her fork.

“I mean - to reach Corlain, we must cross through the mountains,” Fletcher said. “But they’re large, and there are only one or two roads.”

Jane swallowed a large mouthful. “I’ve heard of the Drustbacks,” she said, washing it down with a sip of tea. “They’re supposed to be impressive - the only mountains I’ve ever seen are down in Zandalar.”

“Really?” asked Fletcher curiously. “Why did you go there?”

“Honour guard for a Princess,” grumbled Jane. “She wasn’t bad.” The tomato disappeared. A knife was picked up, and butter was spread across a new piece of toast.

“Leaving that aside, we’ve got a choice.” Fletcher placed her hand down next to a drop of spilled tea. “We can take the Highroad, down to Arom’s Stand. It is obvious, and easy to guard against.” A finger ran through the drop, drawing a straight line. “It’s also short, and safe.”

“Or?” asked Jane, dipping her toast in the remains of the gravy.

Fletcher smiled, ruefully. “Or we think of something else.” 

Jane chewed thoughtfully, then drained the last of her tea. Then she stacked all the plates up neatly. “Well. Sounds like we’re taking the Highroad then. What do you want to do when we’re attacked?”

Fletcher winced, tapping the wood of the deck with her fingers. “Hide,” she said. “Our hunters are not comfortable in the forest. Then if that fails, then we improvise.”

“Hmm,” said Jane - she stood, picking up the tray, and knocking on the front door. 

It swung open; the Kul Tiran man looked up at her, smiling.

“Breakfast was delicious,” Jane said politely. “Thank you for making it for me. Is Alys there?”

The man nodded, taking the tray and stepping back - Jane ducked her head around the door. Sitting at the head of a heavy wooden table was Alys. Her massive frame drawing the chair she sat on. Around the other sides were a group of farmers, also dressed in boots and homespun. Bowls of porridge steamed in front of them. Heads turned, dark eyes looking curiously at Jane.

“Those weapons you’re hiding,” said Jane. “I want one.”

Behind her, Fletcher started coughing madly. Inside, mouths fell open, and dark eyes widened all around the table. Anxious looks darted between them. A spoon clattered into a bowl, dropped from a nerveless hand. 

Jane tilted her head, waiting.

Alys’ looked at her, eyebrows raised - then nodded. She stood, walking half-way towards the door. “What type do you ask for, ferch Harold?” 

Jane frowned, thinking - her fingers tapped against the doorframe. “Honestly, anything a civilian might own. Maybe a spear? A wood axe, or club?” 

Alys stopped next to a cupboard, taking a key from her pocket and opening it. Inside was full of neatly racked staves. 

“Ah,” said Jane, appreciatively. “Yes.”

Alys turned and looked at them contemplatively - then selected one from the back. It was shorter than the rest, and dusty. “This was mine, when I was a child.”

Jane reached out and took it, hefting it carefully. The weight was good. The wood was smooth under her hand. “Thank you.”

“Go in peace, Jane Fitzwilliams,” said Alys. “I hope you will return it when you next are our guest.” She smiled. “And will choose inside the house, rather than stay with those who dwell beyond it.”

“I was welcome,” said Jane. “I go in peace.” She gave a little half-salute, then turned from the kitchen door. 

Fletcher’s face was a picture - a mixture of amazement, horror, and laughter. “Well,” she murmured. “You do have a way with words.”

“Hmm,” said Jane, pleased. She tapped the staff on the deck, then shouldered it neatly.

“And now you are suitably dangerous, it is time for us to go,” said Fletcher. Disquiet flashed through her eyes. “All things going well, it should only take a few days to cross the mountains.”

“We’ll get there,” said Jane, swinging on her pack.

Fletcher ducked inside the farmhouse to make her goodbyes. Jane stared up at the blue sky, idly going through her pre-hike checks. It was a bright day; a haze of dust was lifting from the gravel entranceway.

“Let’s go,” said Fletcher, coming back out onto the porch. Her face was set; she squared her shoulders, and began marching down the road.

Jane strolled behind her, holding her staff. It was a beautiful day - the trees murmured gently as they passed, and gravel crunched under their feet with every step. Fletcher was uncharictaristically silent.

The track they were on widened, then joined to a lane. Tall hedges grew on one side, and fences protected rolling meadows on the other. Sheep moved away when they came close - otherwise not a single living thing was to be seen. 

Jane was rather enjoying herself. The staff was a comforting weight at her side. The second-hand boots she’d acquired from the coast guard were beginning to break in, and when they’d stopped for lunch, Fletcher had pulled out a cloth-wrapped packed lunch. Jane sat back in the tall grass, munching on fresh bread, apples, and sausages; all was right with the world. 

The day passed without making the Highroad. After seeing the sun start to fall, Jane had fought their way through the roadside hedge, and insisted they sleep. The tarp was pitched. Fletcher disulatorily picked at a few cold leftovers, then waved Jane to sleep first, turning her body towards the road. When she woke Jane to take the watch, her face was exhausted.

Jane was no stranger to boring sentry duties; the hedge rustled in the wind, alongside the sounds of insects and birds. The dawn broke with nothing disturbing them. 

When called, Fletcher rolled out of the tarp so quickly Jane wondered if she had slept at all.

The second day was almost a repeat of the first. The lane widened into a proper road, and cows started to dot in among the sheep. After lunch, a low rumbling began - Fletcher grabbed Jane by the shoulder and threw them down into the hedge, hand clutching. A wagon had eventually rolled slowly past, driven by a bored-looking driver.

Fletcher had watched after him for half an hour before letting Jane back up.

It took a long time to reach the Highroad - four days. By then the strain was wearing on Jane as well. Finally, she insisted they take a break, practically dragging Fletcher back down the sideroad and off into a roadside thicket. They settled into a small hollow, deep within a large wooded area, guarded on every side by tall trees. Jane built a small, buried fire. After an hour in the shade of the trees, Fletcher fell dead asleep.

Jane watched the fields carefully, ready to move if she woke again. But Fletcher only roused for dinner - warm porridge and dried apples - before crawling back under the blankets. 

When Fletcher woke the next morning, dawn had come and gone. Jane stoically endured the resulting outrage, then pointed out that tired people made mistakes - better to be well rested before attempting a mountain crossing. They settled in once more. Jane took her turn at unconsciousness.

In the early morning light of the next day, as ready and rested as they could make themselves, they finally ventured onto the Highroad. It wasn’t practical to avoid all passing traffic - the road was busy - but Fletcher stayed close to the drainage ditch, and picked up the pace when the stretch they were on wasn’t flanked by trees.

Jane, for her part, thought they could be anyone. Days of travel had left them dusty, rumpled, and sweaty. Jane was badly sunburned. Passengers in carriages avoided eye-contact, and wagoneers looked at them with only honest suspicion. 

Towards the afternoon, the road began to wind up through some foothills. Fletcher called a halt - they’d walked all day. After a soft debate, camp was pitched in the lee of a large rock. Fletcher refused to risk a fire. They huddled together under the blankets, tarp slung low.

That night, they heard hoofbeats on the road.

The next morning, Fletcher was pale. Her pack was fastened with unusual clumsiness, and she peered around the rock for several minutes before stepping out.

Jane walked behind her, worriedly. When lunch came, Fletcher had them back off the road and into the trees, huddling down behind an ash tree. The meal was quick, and then they were back on the road again.

About half-way through the afternoon, the road broke out of the forests - they had reached the tree line. Fletcher halted, lines of worry etched deeply into her face. Only scattered trees lay before them, going increasingly spare as the road wended towards the mountains.

“Well, this is it,” she said. It was the only thing she’d spoken since breakfast.

“We’ll be all right,” said Jane, hitching up her pack. “Just a short hop, and we’ll be down into Arom’s Stand.” Her eyes slid sideways, mouth half-twisting in concern. 

Fletcher nodded jerkily, then stepped out of the treeline.

They walked steadily out into the open. Traffic had slowed. The weather was clear and the mountains were only lightly capped with summer snow.

At about dusk, on an otherwise empty road, they heard hoofbeats again.

“Quickly now,” snapped Fletcher, shoving Jane towards a single pine. “Lie still!”

Jane ran over to it, and dropped flat, peering up towards the road. Fletcher threw herself down alongside her and one hand flung up to grab Jane’s wrist. Their hiding place was pitiful; only the deepening shadows and inattention could possibly cover their tracks.

The hoofbeats seemed to increase in volume, until they were thunderous. Riders appeared. Blue cloaks trailed in the wind, and the leader carried a long storm-lantern. Jane counted quickly - there were over ten - and most of them seemed armed with blackened swords and wicked-looking hunting spears.

Jane turned, slowly, looking for a path of retreat. Behind them was a cliff, rising up towards a sharp peak. Around them were only rocks, and scrubby plants. She turned back to the pursuers, physically willing herself down into the dirt. Her hand closed around the staff.

There was a sharp command, and the riders drew up. Horses pawed the ground with their hooves; tack jingled as hooded figures swung in circles, searchingly. Jane saw several masks - some had shark teeth, others had tentacles, and yet more horns and tusks. 

Jane felt Fletcher squeeze her wrist, just a little. 

Another barked order, and a few dismounted. They started walking about, some pulling their mask up to stare at the ground. The faces were a mixture of genders, and some spoke common with a Drustvar accent but all were Kul Tiran. 

Jane tensed; her hands started shaking, as they always did before battle. Her breath shortened; her stomach churned.

“Don’t move,” breathed Fletcher, softly. “Stay perfectly still.”

Jane didn’t know how that was going to be possible. 

One of the figures turned towards them, walking casually towards the brush of their hiding place. It wasn’t unexpected; the tree was the only cover for fifty meters in either direction. Jane willed them to turn away anyway.

The grip on her wrist tightened. 

The figure came closer, kicking at rocks, prodding at scrub with an unsheathed sword - they rounded the tree. The mask swung down to stare at them directly. 

Jane surged up. 

Someone was snarling something inarticulate - with a jolt of surprise, she realised it was her voice. Her arms swung up with the precision of thousands of hours of drill, and the staff connected alongside the figure with a sickening crack. 

The blue cloak dropped as if poleaxed.

“No!” cried Fletcher.

“Run,” ordered Jane. “Go!” She readjusted the grip on her staff. 

Riders were yelling in surprise and alarm; some of the more astute were sprinting towards the tree. One had fallen over on the gravel road, and was now scrambling back up again. Horses wheeled, people cried out, and swords flashed dully in the waning light.

Jane considered her odds. Time was key - the longer she could hold, and the more attention she could draw, the better the odds of Fletcher getting away. She set her teeth, and charged.

“Stop!” yelled Fletcher. 

Jane ignored this. Whipping the staff up, she blocked a wild sword-swing, following the movement with a strike to the masked face, which shattered around the butt of the pole. The man under it screamed as he clutched his bleeding face. 

Jane ignored him, stepping into a lightning-fast spear strike coming from another direction; knocking an arm aside, she punched the suddenly open figure in the throat. Only a rapid, blind duck to the right saved her arm from being taken by a blade - the staff came up again, thumping into the legs of the assailant, sending them to the dirt. Ribs crunched sickeningly as she slammed the staff down. 

Four out of the fight. Six to go. 

The leader was roaring in anger, struggling to control his horse as it danced under him - the remaining riders closed in a rush. Spears and swords raised menacingly, like a thicket of thorns.

Jane seized every last drop of courage, and charged again. She crashed into their line like someone deranged, beating one down with brute force. Something struck her in the back, and she whirled like lightning, lashing out - the staff connected - then bright pain spiked, and her leg collapsed under her. A spear had taken her leg. In a haze of fear and adrenaline Jane lurched to her feet again, taking one final unwary hunter with a lucky swipe. 

Then a boot kicked her onto her back. Another kicked her in the face, with malice. A third figure grabbed the staff, and flung it far away. For an instant she stared up at the upraised spear of the final hunter, thinking of death - a parting curse hung on her lips. Her face, bloody and sore, screwed up in defiance.

“Stop!” yelled Fletcher. “Stop! We’re - we’re in the cult as well! Stop!”

The person above her jerked. Another put their foot on Jane’s chest, keeping her down - the air was crushed from her lungs.

“What?” said the person, muffled through the mask.

“Ah - swordfish!” said Fletcher, urgently. “Isn’t that this month’s password? Swordfish!”

The man hesitated, then pulled back. “What?”

The boot came off Jane's chest - she heaved a great breath, then choked, spitting out a glob of blood and mucus. The ground beneath her was beginning to feel quite cold, and her vision greyed. Everything was fuzzy - nothing made sense. Her head lolled against the ground.

“That’s the Tidesdamned Proudmoore you idiots just stabbed,” said Fletcher, frantically. “For the Tidemother’s sake, I almost got her to you. Help her, she’s bleeding badly!”

“Proudmoore?” said the figure above her. 

Jane blinked up, slowly. Fletcher’s face was swimming in and out, terror written openly across her face. Two hands clamped down on her leg. Jane’s body blazed with pain.

“Ow,” she said.

Fletcher lifted one bloody hand lifted to Jane’s cheek in comfort, then dropped back, lingering over her heart. Something small and round - a tube - slipped into Jane’s jacket pocket. Then the hands drew away.

“Someone get over here and press down on this wound,” said Fletcher.

Mercifully, at that point, the darkness closed up around Jane, and blood loss stole her away.


	5. Chapter 5

Jane awoke slowly. 

It was boiling. Her back was was damp with sweat, and something heavy and wooly was weighing her down. Its edge tickled at her nose. 

Jane kept her breathing even, then cracked her eyes carefully, ears straining - around her was no noise. The room revealed by this was dimly lit - and stuffy. Jane nudged the wool blanket down a little, stealthily, eyes darting everywhere. 

The only movement was a fire burning cheerfully in the grating. As far as Jane could tell, she was totally alone.

It was the work of a moment to sit up and throw the blankets back. There Jane contemplated her situation. Nothing remained of the dirty, blood-stained clothes she had been wearing when ambushed on the road. Now she was clad in a nightgown, and a clean white bandage wrapped tightly around one leg. Jane prodded at the wound experimentally, then hissed, hands twitching away.

The twinge in her leg suggested trying to get up wasn’t a good idea - she tried it anyway. Jane’s head swum dizzyingly, and she ended up sitting back down again. Her second try had her upright. A few valiant hops brought her to the door - the massive handle didn’t budge. 

Jane peered at it suspiciously. It was small, and thick, set into the solid stone masonry of the wall. The hinges had been placed on the outside. She glanced around - there were no windows.

The last piece of furniture was a chair, placed in front of the fire, and a small coffee table. Jane sighed heavily - one lacy arm swiped the sweat from her forehead - but she hopped over to sit in it. 

Jane glared into the fire, and waited.

The fire burned low; the monotony of endless nothing gnawed. There was no way to tell the time, each minute stretching out like hours. Occasionally Jane would doze, jerking awake at every pop or crackle the fire made. Eventually the log crumbled into grey ashes.

There was a knock on the door; the lock rattled. Jane jerked, throwing herself out of the chair - then stumbled, grunting in pain. She caught herself on the chairback, and turned, scowling heavily at the door.

With a squealing groan, it shuddered open - a haughty looking Kul Tiran butler stood there, a towel folded neatly over his arm. He stared down his nose at her. 

“Does madam require refreshments?” he said.

“Madam requires pants,” snapped Jane. “Then my postal officer, and a horse.”

“I will bring madam refreshments forthwith,” said the butler, loftily. The door swung closed again.

Jane stared after him, still leaning on the back of the chair. Her brow twitched in confusion. 

A knock sounded on the door again.

“Come?” said Jane - then cleared her throat, and squared her shoulders. “Come.”

The door opened again. A different man, dressed in rumpled homespun, peaked in. Dark eyes watched her carefully. “‘Lo, ma’am. Come to return your belongings.” He thrust out a sack.

Jane frowned, letting go of the chair. She limped towards him, slowly. 

His eyes darted sideways, up and down the corridor behind him, and he shook the bag urgently. “Hurry ma’am, we ain’t got much time.” He turned back to her, taking rapid stock of the room. “Under the bed’s your best bet ma’am - they won’t go looking.” 

The sack was unceremoniously dumped into her arms. Then the man leapt back out the door, pulling it shut behind him.

Jane put one hand on the doorframe to steady herself, hefting the bag thoughtfully. She drew the bag open, just a little bit. On top was the crumpled green fabric of her jacket, borrowed from the Coast Guard station. 

Dragging the bundle over to the bed made the clothes easier to pull out - Jane threw the jacket on like armour, immediately feeling more herself. It was stupendously hot.

Jane leaned forward to pull out her pants, resigning herself to their utter ruin - when the movement made the pocket of the jacket clink. Jane blinked, hand dipping inside the coat; where once lay only the tinderbox, now a new item was causing it to rattle. 

Jane drew the new thing out. In her hand lay Fletcher’s messenger tube, safe and sound. Most of the wood was smooth and undamaged, but at one end, someone had crudely scratched the outline of a bear.

Jane blinked at it slowly, hand curling around its sides. Then she shucked off the jacket like a snake, shoving everything back in the bag. This bundle was rammed violently between the wall and the baseboard, squashed flat by the force of her desperation. She kicked it once or twice, just to be sure. Then she got up and staggered to the center of the room, examining the hiding spot from every angle. 

The door rattled behind her.

“Come,” she said, coldly.

The door swung open. The butler swept in. “Refreshments, madam,” he said, placing a tray down on the little table. The silver cover was thrown back with a flourish, revealing a daintily arranged cheeseboard. A woman trailing after him held a sweating pitcher of water - Jane’s eyes locked onto this bounty.

“May I?” she said politely, making a small gesture. The woman held out a glass. Jane brushed this aside, taking the pitcher and sculling its contents down. Spilled water trickled down her cheeks in rivulets, deliciously cool, splattering across the floor; ice burned a line down her throat. It was instant relief.

A small cough sounded behind her - Jane wiped her face with a sleeve, then turned to look.

The butler had puffed up, looking at her with a mixture of horror and disdain. Jane contemplated him, swiping a cheese cube, and tossing it casually into her mouth. 

“Explain to me,” she said, around the morsel. “Why have you imprisoned an agent of the Lord Admiral.”

“Madam is a guest in the house of Lady White,” said the butler, radiating disapproval. “Lord White has ordered you be treated with honour and respect.”

Jane flicked her eyes to the woman, whose face was carefully blank.

“You are invited to dinner with the Lord White,” the butler continued. “He expects you promptly at seven.”

“No,” said Jane. 

The butler pursed his lips. “You will, of course…”

“Where is my postman?” said Jane.

“...he expects Madam to-”

“No,” Jane snarled, fingers biting down into the wood of the chair. Her head turned slowly, pinning the butler with her gaze. “Where is my postman?” 

“I know of no postman,” the butler stuttered, backing up. “Madam was rescued by a patrol.”

Jane’s eyes narrowed, involuntarily. “Hmm,” she said, leaning back. Suddenly she was hit by a wave of tiredness. Her leg throbbed; she caught a whiff of her own smell, and her nose wrinkled involuntarily. “Clothes,” she said, wearily. “A bath. Fresh bandages.”

The butler rearranged his dignity. “As madam requires,” he said. Then he snapped his fingers at the woman, and ducked out the door.

Jane watched him go - then deliberately caught the woman’s eye, and nodded respectfully. She nodded back, just slightly, before bolting out the door.

The chair was comfortable. Jane slumped down into it, trying to ignore the ache of her leg and the restless misery of confinement.

The next knock came swiftly, and brought inside two puffing footman with a bathtub. This was set down before the fire - several women with buckets came next, carrying steaming water. One placed a new bandage down on the chair. Jane fumed quietly, unused to so much fuss - by the time the gaudily dressed tailor appeared, she was beside herself. 

The tailor watched the serving women leave, dark eyes inscrutable behind his spectacles. Then he turned to her - his face was impassive as he began to take her measurements.

“We don’t have much time,” he said conversationally. “So listen to me carefully.”

Jane jerked. “What?”

“Just listen,” he said, tone almost offhand. “You need to play along.”

“Play along with what?” said Jane, animatedly. “Why does everyone in Drustvar -”

“Cyn said you shouldn’t trust anyone,” said the man, lowly. He leaned back, rolling up his tape. “She says that includes her. Dress, or suit?”

“For the sake of the Tides,” growled Jane. “Suit.” 

“Good choice,” said the tailor approvingly. “Very Kul Tiran.” He nodded to her easily, and strolled out the door.

Jane threw her hands up in resignation. She turned, limping over towards the bath. The water was luke-warm, and care had to be taken to avoid getting her stab-wound wet. But the soap smelled like something her mother would use. Jane gritted her teeth and scrubbed briskly. Grime sloughed off.

By the time the butler knocked again, she was back in the nightgown, smelling faintly of roses.

The tray of cheese was whisked away - the footmen hurried back in to wrestle the tub back out the door. There was silence for a while. Then the woman were back again as well, scurrying around, laying out a pile of clothing. 

Time held little meaning. Behind each visitor, the door was locked tightly.

When the butler arrived for the third time, Jane had already climbed into her suit, which was sleek, dark and perfectly tailored. She stood behind the chair, hand resting on its back, like some Kul Tiran portrait painting. Tucked away In her pocket lay the message tube.

“If madam would follow me?” said the butler, gracing her with a hint of approval. 

Jane began limping towards the door. “This would be easier with a cane,” she grumbled. “Or with my staff.”

A hint of unease flickered through the butler’s eyes. “Ahem,” he coughed, sidling out the door. “Do follow me, please.” 

The corridor was heavy stone, featureless and grey. Two figures stood waiting, clad in deep blue. One held a storm lantern. Cold licked at Jane’s arms and throat - old fortresses were so draughty. 

Jane bit her tongue, and gestured impatiently. 

Wordlessly, the two figures turned, flanking her. The butler led the way, holding to Jane’s painful pace. As they walked the corridors became better lit - wall sconces illuminated dusty paintings of Kul Tiran men in Navy uniforms. Each held a snow-white sword. Nautical paraphernalia littered the occasional sideboard. There were still no windows. Every door was thick, and tightly closed.

Finally the butler reached the end of the corridor, opening the door. The two shadows stopped, as if mirrors of one another - the single storm lantern swung crazily. Jane glanced at them. Then she shuffled forward to the door.

“Jane Fitzwilliams,” announced the butler, bowing. He closed the door firmly behind her.

The room was long, and brightly lit - almost a throne room. A long table lay in the middle, and tapestries and banners, all with a white sword, hung richly from the walls. Masked figures stood in every corner, motionless. The single fireplace burned fiercely.

At the end of the room was a man. He stood when she entered, descending the stairs towards her, hands thrown wide. “Miss Fitzwilliams,” he said, sleekly. “How delighted I am that you accepted my invitation.”

“How could I refuse?” drawled Jane, still limping forward. 

She reached the table. 

“Please do sit,” said the man silkily. “We have so much to talk about.”

As if from nowhere, a servant appeared, pulling out a chair - Jane nodded thanks, and sat. Her leg screamed. She kept her face impassive.

“Perhaps a drink to start?” the man said, casually. His eyes glinted. “Wine? Brandy?” 

Jane didn’t want alcohol - but the man was clearly dangerous. Her eyes slid across the silent figures against the walls. Blue cloaks. Storm lanterns, and swords. Papier-mâché masks of teeth and tusks and fins.

“Rum,” said Jane, slowly. “Or perhaps whiskey.”

The man slapped his hand down on the table, smiling a sharp smile. “Navy rum for our guest!” He turned, gesturing broadly. 

A bottle appeared with two crystal glasses. The butler poured. Dark liquid swirled. Jane picked up the snifter, and carefully sipped.

The man picked up his own glass in satisfaction. “A good, Kul Tiran choice, Miss Fitzwilliams, from a good Kul Tiran daughter. One can only approve.” He smiled unpleasantly

“You have the advantage of me, Sir,” said Jane, calmly. “You are…?”

“Charles White,” said the man, watching her carefully. “Husband to Lady Florence White, Protector of Fallhaven.”

“Charmed,” said Jane, blandly. She took another sip.

He leaned back in his chair slyly, gesturing expansively. “My wife and I were glad to have found you when we did - praise the Tidemother.” 

“Praise the Tidemother,” murmured the masked figures on every side. 

Jane twitched; then jerked her suit straight. 

White watched, maliciously amused. “There are so many ruffians on the road,” he tutted. “One would think the Lord Admiral might intervene.”

Jane pasted on a benign expression, closing one hand firmly around the rum glass. 

“But of course, true children of the Ocean only want glory for Kul Tiras,” said White, softly.

“Glory for Kul Tiras,” murmured the masked figures.

Jane’s shoulders tensed again - her suit jacket pulled at her arms like it was slowly strangling her. Eyes danced around the room again, counting, assessing - the maths wasn’t good. Plenty of guards and few nearby exits. Her eyes dropped back to her rum glass, held in one white-knuckled hand.

“To Kul Tiras,” she said, voice steady. She lifted the snifter in salute.

White raised his own glass as well - they sipped together, watching each other carefully. 

His mouth curled in satisfaction. “I think we can be friends, Miss Fitzwilliams,” said White, placing the glass back on the table. “You have a certain coolness. Perhaps the scion of such a noble Kul Tiran line might appreciate the heritage we protect.”

Suddenly he lifted his arm, and made a small gesture. Servants appeared again, carrying plates of crab, shellfish and turbot. Portions were ladled out and placed before them both. 

Neither moved to eat.

Jane’s thoughts raced, rehearsing potential actions. Nothing seemed wise. Her hand felt naked without a sword drawn, without comrades on each side bolstering her courage. Damp sweat gathered under her jacket, although the room was freezing. 

White picked up his fork. “Do you know how the Whites came to be granted power here, Miss Fitzwilliams?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Jane, blandly. 

“Oh, it’s a good story,” White chuckled. “The Tidemother was generous.” 

He paused to allow the murmured echo to die away. 

“She granted Nethanial White a great boon,” he continued. “It was the White Sword, the Blade of the Ocean. With this he hewed down High Thornspeaker Coelwulf, tearing his soul from the land and casting it out on the Tides.” He nonchalantly speared a cockle, watching her easily, chewing with every enjoyment.

Jane’s breath hitched in horror - her brain stuttered as she processed the implications. Then she steadied herself, sipping her rum and pasting on an interested expression. “A fine tale, my Lord,” she croaked. 

“Would it not have been a most glorious day?” said White keenly, leaning forward - then he dropped his fork with a clatter, smiling suddenly. “Would you like to see the sword? Please, let me show you. Owens! Attend me!”

A masked figure detached from the wall, and knocked sharply on the servant’s door - this swung open.

Fletcher marched through, dressed in a blue tabard; emblazoned on it was a white sword. Lying across her hands was a cloth, and resting on that was a blade. It was plain and functional, but for being bone white.

Jane started - she stared at Fletcher’s impassive face - then she stared at the sword. Then she stared at Fletcher again.

Fletcher did not so much as glance her way, falling to her knees before White, and offering up the blade.

“My Lord,” she said.

“Thank you, Owens,” said White, taking it. The edges of his smile curved up, the smallest hint of a smirk. “Do remain there. And of course, Miss Fitzwilliams, you have already met my creature?”

“What -?” said Jane. Something damp chilled her wrist - she looked down blankly. Her hands were shaking, and it was splashing rum over her sleeve. She put the rum glass down. Then she took a deep breath, and flattened her hand against the hard stone tabletop.

“You must have many questions, Miss Fitzwilliams,” said White, casually admiring his sword. “Let me answer them for you.”

Fletcher remained kneeling, head tilted in deference. 

“The post-” Jane stammered.

“Oh, Postman Fletcher is quite real,” said White, with an easy gesture. “Owens tells me she gave you both quite the chase through the streets of Boralus.” 

It was like falling; like a pale sickness was being poured through her body. Her mind felt like static. Jane felt her face go white - her mouth open slowly, but no sound emerged. 

“Such a shame she wasn’t carrying the message,” White continued, tone dripping satisfaction. “Because that would have bought us a great deal more time - but no matter.”

Jane came back to herself, like being dunked with a bucket of cold water. The shape of the small tube was suddenly all she could feel against her side. She cleared her throat. “Why do you say that, my Lord?”

“Because Drustvar is ours,” White breathed, coming to his feet. The sword swung around in his hand, flashing in the light - he laid it alongside Fletcher’s neck. “Ruled by those loyal to Kul Tiras. And it will stay that way, if I have to cut the throat of every Drust myself.”

Jane shot half-way out of her seat - then froze. White’s sword had twitched. Fletcher did not move, or make a single sound, but a small line of blood beaded up from her neck.

“Are you talking about… home rule?” Jane said, eye fixed on the sword.

White swung around, snarling and roaring - the sword drew back, stabbing the air in front of Jane’s face. “Never mention those words under my roof!”

“My apologies, Lord White,” said Jane calmly. She placed her hand on top of the sword and tipped it down. “What words should I use instead?”

“Treachery.” White’s face stilled. Suddenly he pulled back, laying the sword reverently down on the table. “Betrayal. A false Proudmoore, selling everything that loyal Whites have ever fought and died for.” He stroked the hilt; it seemed to shimmer under his touch.

“Yes,” said Jane absently, distracted by the sword.

White glanced at her, sharply - then drew back. “You understand?”

“Drustvar,” Jane said, struggling to figure out what he wanted. Nothing was certain in this conversation except she liked none of it. “It’s been part of Kul Tiras for a long time.”

“Exactly,” said White, low and dangerous. “Exactly. Glory to Kul Tiras!”

“Glory to Kul Tiras,” rumbled the figures against the wall.

“Owens has told me about your feelings towards your sister, Miss Fitzwilliams,” said White, intensely. He turned to stare down at Fletcher, placing one hand on the top of her head. “Told me about how you do not wish to associate yourself with her name. You praise the Tidemother with your every breath.”

“Praise the Tidemother,” droned the figures against the wall.

“Not like a false Proudmoore,” he hissed, his fingers tightening. “No true Proudmoore would dribble that much facile pity for the Drust.”

Fletcher’s face twitched in pain as his fingers gripped her hair - but she remained still.

Jane rocked back, just slightly. “Willa and I are certainly different people,” she said finally, noncommittal. “With different interests.” One hand had spasmed into a fist - she deliberately relaxed it again.

“They are plotting rebellion,” said White, ignoring her. He stared off into the distance, letting go of Fletcher, oblivious to her pained face. “The Drust are planning it now, out there in the forests. I know this, because I let them do it.”

This conversation felt like a nightmare, spinning rapidly out of control. Jane stared at White. “You allow them to rebel?”

“Oh yes - Owens here is well trusted by them,” said White, finally looking down at Fletcher. “Aren’t you, Owens?”

“An honour to serve you, my Lord,” said Fletcher, quietly - her face was once again impassive.

“When they rise,” crooned White. “And they will rise, because Owens here will ensure it - then all true Kul Tirans will understand we were right all along. At the moment many sympathise with their treachery, but soon all will know the true nature of the Drust. All will exult the Tidemother’s Children.”

“Praise the Tidemother,” said the figures around the edges of the room, slightly more forcefully. 

The plate of fish in front of her still steamed fragently. Jane stared into it. “I see,” she said, heavily. “I do indeed see. A cunning plan, my Lord.”

“Yes,” said White, with some relish. “The White Sword will sing again. By my hand, it will cast a High Thornspeaker’s soul to the Tides once more.”

“Lovely,” said Jane, cooly. She picked up two forks, slowly pulling apart the fish. With every confession it seemed increasingly unlikely she would leave the dinner alive. The forks were poor weapons, but it was something. Her eyes flicked to Fletcher, roving over her - there were no visible wounds, and probably no weapons either

White nodded approvingly, blind to her thought’s direction. He sat neatly in his own chair, picking up his own fork. With the other he picked up a fish knife, slicing the torbut and crab into neat sections - he began to eat heartily.

Fletcher remained kneeling behind him on the floor, unmoving.

“Will Cynethryth…” Jane said, pushing the food politely around her plate. “Is Cynethryth the leader of the rebellion?” 

White looked up - then tossed back his glass of rum. He started to laugh, long and low and ugly, looking at Jane with glinting eyes. “There is a lesson the Whites have learned recently,” he said. “If a leader does not appear...” He gestured meaningfully at Fletcher. “...then they are easily replaced.”

Jane shot a look at Fletcher - her face was subdued, and the merest hint of unhappiness flickered in her eyes. 

“You can replace them,” Jane repeated slowly. “You mean how you replaced Postman Fletcher?”

White looked at her condescendingly. “No - such trivial nonsense, Miss Fitzwilliams. No. Try again, and this time use your imagination.”

Jane cast her mind back over the conversation, then blanched. “You replaced th-,” she stuttered. “You replaced the High Thornspeaker with Fl- with Owens?”

“And why not?” said White, triumphantly. “No one has ever seen Cynethryth, not even the Drust; he skulks in his forests, refusing to come out. Why not replace him?” White cut another piece of crab, eating it slowly. “The Drust in the forests and orchards were overjoyed their Thornspeaker had finally revealed herself, and were eager to share their plans.” A short gesture had Fletcher up from the floor, rushing to pour him a new glass of rum.

Jane sat completely still as Fletcher leaned over her, topping up her glass as well.

“Owens,” said White into his glass, gloatingly. “Has just enough Drust witchery to impress ignorant peasants. Why hunt filth, when it will find us instead? We need only wait for the real Cynethryth to be lured out by the deception.”

Jane put down her forks. They made a small click as she rested it next to her plate. “This is all interesting, my Lord,” she said quietly. “But far above the understanding of a simple guardsman.”

“Oh, Jane Fitzwilliams,” said White. His knife rose and fell, and he smiled. “You are nothing so simple. Not for men of imagination.”

Jane’s fists clenched, hidden by the table; her breath shortened. It was everything she could do to keep her thoughts from her face. 

“After all, the Lord Admiral cannot appear on land.” The last piece of fish slid into White’s mouth, and he dabbed at his mouth daintily, looking truly satisfied. “And loyal Kul Tirans already know - the Lord Admiral’s family carries only one name. I hope you enjoyed your dinner, Miss Proudmoore - you are unexpected, and useful equally. Acolyte William, could you escort our guest back to her quarters?”

A shape detached itself from the shadows of the far wall - a massive blue-cloaked shape, with a particularly brutish mask. It carried a large cudgel. 

Jane stood, straightening her suit jacket. Then she turned and began to limp towards the door.

She spent the painful, hobbling walk deep in thought - at points she was forced to use the wall to hold her up. The guard said nothing and offered no help; they simply waited patiently, cudgel always in hand. When finally she was ushered once again into her little cell, it was almost with relief - inside was lit by only a single candle. 

The door locked tightly behind her. 

Jane took a deep breath and stumbled forward, tugging at the buttons of her jacket. 

“You look splendid in a suit,” said Fletcher admiringly, looming out of the shadows. “I’m not sure how I can use this knowledge, but surely there is something.”

 _“Gah!”_ said Jane, eloquently, tripping over the side table.

Fletcher rushed around to help, but Jane was already up, staggering back. The table rose with her, clutched in her hands like a shield.

Fletcher stopped at this, holding up her hands and looking worried. “Yes, now, well - while that does make sense, I can explain.”

“Explain?” hissed Jane, waving the table unsteadily. “You’re not the postman!”

“Well, no,” said Fletcher, waving one of her upraised hands concedingly. “I mean, well. No. I mugged her and stole her clothes.”

“Tides damn your eyes, you rotten dogfish!” snarled Jane. The table wobbled alarmingly.

Fletcher paused - her face was conciliatory. “Now I probably deserve that, but just listen for a minute.”

“Why?” Jane said, incredulous. “How could I possibly believe anything you say?”

Fletcher’s face fell for a second, then twisted into pained understanding. “Yes, I probably deserve that, too.” She took a deep breath, straightened up, and looked Jane directly in the eyes. “We need to make a plan for how to get you out of here.”

Jane looked at her, feeling everything. In the darkness, and her crushing tiredness, she was overwhelmed with doubt, confusion, hurt, and terror - it boiled up, unrelenting and unsubsiding. The table slipped from her nerveless fingers. 

It struck her foot. Then she was hopping around a little, cursing. Pain shot through her leg. 

Kind hands caught her, propping her up - Jane let herself be helped over to the bed, perching on the side. Fletcher retreated over to the chair by the fire, but didn’t sit down. The flames flickered over her face eerily. 

“Right,” said Fletcher. “Let me re-introduce myself.” She bowed stiffly, clearing her throat. “Miss Cynthia Owens, Agent of the House of White - at your service.”

“Charmed,” said Jane, flatly.

“Perhaps, er, you could call me Cynthia,” she said nervously.

“Hm,” said Jane, darkly.

“Anyway.” Cynthia’s eyes darted around. “Welcome to the Fallhaven estate.”

“An underrated jewel,” growled Jane. “Truly, emblematic of Drustvar’s hospitality.”

“Yes, well,” said Cynthia, picking up a log from the basket. “Sorry about that. Lord Charles has new ideas on how the place should be run.” She prodded half-heartedly at the fireplace.

Jane’s face screwed up. “I’d have never guessed,” she mumbled grumpily.

“How much pain... “ said Cynthia hesitantly. “I mean. How badly did you get stabbed?”

“I’ll live,” Jane said, quietly.

“I could…” said Cynthia, looking uncertain. “Do you require healing?”

Jane looked at her.

“Alright,” said Cynthia, looking truly unhappy. “Yes, I understand that. I’ll earn it back. How much of the Lord Charles’ plan did you get from dinner?”

“There were a few moving pieces.” Jane scrubbed her eyes. “He was provoking a Drust rebellion in order to crush it for power - preventing Willa from making reforms - setting me up as a puppet - setting _you_ up as a puppet - and somehow a Tide cult is involved?”

“A very dangerous cult,” Cynthia swung around, dark eyes fixing on Jane. “They only need one or two whispering in Kul Tiran ears to upset the Balance. And it’s impossible to tell who is compromised, even in Boralus.”

“Right, right,” said Jane, ill-temperedly. “But whispers spread around. Why doesn’t Lady Grey just march over here and stop him?”

“She’s Drust,” said Cynthia, simply. “Drust down to her toenails, for all her Navy medals and Kul Tiran wife. If she were to arrest Lord Charles, every Kul Tiran soul in Drustvar would take up arms, and march against her to break him out. Rebellion would start either which way.”

“This is... why are you telling me this?” said Jane. “You…” she drifted off, patting the pocket where the message tube was stored. Then she waved at the tabard Cynthia was wearing. It was emblazoned with a bone-white sword.

Cynthia stood for a long moment, in the light of the flickering fire. “You’re right,” she said at last, so quiet it was almost a murmur. “I was born here in Fallhaven, to a family of loyal foresters. We’ve served the Whites for generations. But I can’t do it - I won’t betray my people.” She stepped forward, a single step. Her eyes blazed. “So, we need to break you out of here. You need to carry the message tube, and get it to Lady Grey. Are you with me?”

“I got stabbed, Cyn,” Jane pointed out. “Right now I can barely walk.”

“Right,” said Cynthia, determinedly. “Right. Yes, that’s a problem. We’ll need a real, proper plan.”

There was silence. Nothing in the room moved.

“I’ll play along,” said Jane, finally. “What do you propose?”

“Your performance tonight was brilliant,” said Cynthia, straightening. “Spectacular, really - you were the right blend of admiring, confused, and placating. You also cut a dashing figure in a Kul Tiran suit. By the end of the evening Lord Charles was convinced you would make the perfect replacement Lord Admiral.”

Jane couldn’t keep the disgust from her face.

Cynthia shot her a sympathetic look. “And that means he will socialise you to influential Drustvar Kul Tirans.”

“Like…” Jane’s eyes narrowed, then squinted in horror. “Like a party?”

“Most likely, yes,” said Cynthia, stepping forward. “He’ll put me in charge of logistics - good cover. There will be extra people, wagons, things coming or going.”

“So your plan involves me…” Jane trailed off again. 

Cynthia grimaced, stepping forward again - she nodded. “Pretending to be a power-hungry pillock for a while, correct.” 

“I’m not a good actor,” said Jane, warningly.

Cynthia stepped forward the last step, and sat gently down beside Jane on the bed. “I know.”

There was silence.

“I can’t believe I saved you from the ocean,” groused Jane.

“Yeah?” snorted Cynthia. “Well, at least I found food afterwards, Miss ‘I almost drowned, let’s eat some seaweed.’”

Jane huffed a laugh. “The rabbit was better. Agreed.”

They sat beside one another in silence again.

“I truly do not want to be Lord Admiral,” said Jane, quietly into the dark.

Cynthia sighed. “I know,” she murmured.

“Willa and I haven’t written to each other in months,” mumbled Jane. “But I don’t want her dead. I just want out of her shade.”

“You need only pretend for just a little while,” said Cynthia, hesitantly. “And our lives are at stake.”

“Yes,” said Jane. “I know.”

A hand reached out, and took hers. They sat there for a while, by the light of the fire. 

When Cynthia stood to go, she left a key behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahahaha what


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, the tailor arrived back again.

“I am glad to see you,” he said, peering at Jane from behind his spectacles. “As it means you took my advice. Now - do you have any requests for the style of what you’d like to wear?”

“Kul Tiran,” growled Jane. “Just as obnoxiously Kul Tiran as possible.”

The tailor tipped his head in a slight bow, a glint of humour in his eye. “Very good, ma’am.” He sketched out some notations for her. “Perhaps we will add some little extra touches? To ensure people understand your… truly distinguished nature.”

Jane grimaced. “If you think we should.” 

He smiled at her faintly, then went back to his notes.

The door had no sooner closed behind him than it burst open again - in waltzed the butler, his white towel folded neatly over his arm. A frown was affixed to his drooping face.

“Madam will take breakfast,” he said, grandly. “Then Lord White requests the pleasure of her company in the Green Reading Room.”

Jane grunted. “Very good.” One of her fists tapped a soft rhythm on the chair’s arm. 

The woman from the previous day scurried into the room behind the butler, holding a large bundle of fine clothes. Embroidery flashed at the cuffs and shoulders of a greatcoat, and a fine tricorn was perched atop a white shirt. Everything smelled like mothballs.

“This won’t fit quite right, ma’am,” she said softly. “It’s Lady Florence's old uniform. We’re sorry.” 

Jane swallowed back her protestations, and nodded stiffly. Her outrage was futile - no one here would care she wasn’t a sailor.

The butler eyed the uniform, nodding in satisfaction - then he bowed and left. The woman stepped forward to help her. Jane was quickly shucked out of the nightgown, and the bandages on her leg were unwound. Once the new bandage was wound and tucked away, Jane took up the unfamiliar clothes. 

It was a struggle. There seemed to be a lot of buttons. At last, the final one sheeted home, and Jane stood begrudgingly admiring herself in the mirror. Gold flashed across the high collar. The hat was tossed carelessly onto the side table. Everything was fractionally too small.

Jane turned to thank the woman, only to find her hesitating. Dark eyes darted to her, uneasily. “Here ma’am,” she whispered, shoving something into Jane’s hands. Then she fled.

It was a piece of torn paper. On it was a crude sketch of a bear in streaks of charcoal. 

With a frustrated groan, Jane shoved it behind the headboard, taking the opportunity to grab the message tube at the same time. The pants were tight enough that she had to tuck it inside her shirt.

The room was still boiling. The Greatcoat was truly intolerable for any length of time. Finally, with a curse for all sailors, Jane threw it off and kicked it spitefully into a corner. Her tight pants squeaked in complaint. When the butler returned, he found her roasting gently in the chair, which had been dragged as far away from the fire as possible. 

His made his displeasure clear, rushing around fuming, straightening sheets. Without a word to her, he threw several more unwanted logs on the fire. Then he begrudgingly topped up her teacup, and delivered her a sumptuously gilded bowl of breakfast.

Jane grumpily spooned back the porridge. Then she pushed the bowl away, and hauled herself to her feet, glowering directly into his face. “This will not do at all.” 

The butler glanced at her, warily. “Madam has a request?”

“Either someone brings me a walking staff,” said Jane, testily. “Or someone brings me a new leg. Your choice.”

The butler huffed, disdainfully. “Madam cannot-” 

“I’ll not hobble around the castle where the-” Jane voice stuttered, catching. Her voice lowered to a hiss. “Where the Drust can see.” Sick shame flooded her belly. She controlled her face only with effort. “It will not do at all.”

The butler blinked. Then he looked at her almost like he was seeing her for the first time. “Oh, I- I quite understand, Madam. Perhaps I will attend to this myself.” He paused, still looking surprised. “Something might be found in the family wing.”

“Thank you,” said Jane, through gritted teeth. “Most kind.”

She sat back in the chair, and concentrated on not baking to death. 

When the butler returned, he held an old-fashioned walking stick.

Jane pulled herself back to her feet, taking the stick up at once. She hefted it, checking its balance, calculating ways to use it. The stick had a pleasing, dangerous weight; one end had been capped in iron. Air swished as she swung it away in an exploratory, savage arc.

The butler audibly sucked in his breath

Then it made a satisfying click when dropped to the floor. Jane eyed her prize happily, then promptly leaned her weight on it. 

The butler breathed out again.

Jane looked at him, measuredly “Was Lord White still expecting me?” 

“Madam should follow me,” said the butler, recovering quickly. He waved his hand outside, pulling the door open for her.

Jane ducked through and began striding down the corridor. The walking stick made a steady clicking sound with every pace forward. 

From out of the shadows stepped a blue-cloaked figure, keeping pace - they were different from the guard of the night before. Their sword was sheathed, but one hand rested on its hilt, and the set of their shoulders was almost uncertain. 

Jane gripped the top of her walking stick a little tighter, and paid them no mind. 

“For what reason does Lord White wish to see me?” asked Jane to no one in particular, not bothering to look around. The cane tapped rhythmically with each step.

“To speak to you of the plans of the Tidemother,” said the guard confidently, in a thick Drustvar accent. “Praise be to the Tidemother.”

“Praise be to the Tidemother,” mumbled the butler.

“And where did the Tidemother give him these plans, exactly?” Jane asked idly. “His accent doesn’t suggest She did so in Drustvar.”

Neither of the two answered. 

Jane halted, abruptly. 

The butler scrambled to a stop. The blue-cloaked figure whirled on her, half pulling the sword from his scabbard. For an instant there was a dangerous, charged silence.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Jane, rapping her walking stick sharply against the floor. “I will be useless, and worse than useless, if killed. Equally worthless would be placing me in front of a group of Kul Tirans while unable to answer basic questions. Do you wish for this plan to succeed, or not?”

The blue-cloak’s hand slipped off his sword, and he bowed. “Apologies,” he mumbled, then straightened again.

“So?” asked Jane again, impatiently. “Where does Lord White come from?”

“Stormsong, madam,” said the butler, clearing his throat. “Specifically Mariner’s Strand. But he left there many years ago, long before marrying Lady White”

“Hmm,” said Jane, turning away again. She began walking, eyes tracking slowly.

Now that she was looking, the nautical clutter seemed to be missing something. Objects lay stacked on tables, and ragged banners hung against windowless walls - in every direction were anchors, scales, ships, and white swords. But nowhere, not even once, was the Unblinking Eye symbol of the Tidesages. 

Jane smoothed the furrow out of her brow, setting her face straight again.

“The Green Reading Room,” announced the butler grandly, sweeping open the door. He bowed as Jane passed inside. The door clicked shut behind him.

For a reading room, it was poorly lit - the lack of windows was clearly an architectural feature. No effort had been made to decorate. There were no chairs, ornaments, or banners; the only piece of furniture was a massive table, placed in the centre of the room. Six guards stood, evenly spaced, silent and still.

“Ah, Miss Fitzwilliams,” said Lord Charles. He turned from studying something on the table - then smiled in satisfaction. “I see you were born to wear an Admiral’s uniform.”

“Flattery,” said Jane, woodenly. Her mind flashed to the last time she had seen Willa - consciously she straightened. Then she folded her free hand behind her back, deliberately.

“Nonsense,” Lord Charles said, waving one hand. “You have the look.” He turned back to the table. 

Jane walked forward curiously, cane tapping; the room smelled damp. Once closer, she could see the top of the table was engraved with a massive map of Kul Tiras. Shipping lines had been picked out carefully in enamel, snaking between each island. Chunks of smooth rock marked cities. Atop it all lay blue chips of wood, precisely placed, clustered around key cities.

“Now you must see that Drustvar is only the beginning,” said White, casually. He traced the outline of Stormsong Valley. “A mere stepping stone - a place where the Great Lady has no jurisdiction.” He straightened, suddenly, reaching for a delicate china teacup. “But nonetheless. The beginning of any venture is important to get correct.” 

“Hmm,” said Jane, eyeing the map.

“And what does this begin for you, Miss Fitzwilliams?” he said, watching her. “What current has the Tidemother placed you in, that drifts you to my shore?”

Jane paused. Then she drew up every painful memory - every lonely moment, every unearned promotion, every safe, decorative post. Her face twisted in real frustration, grip tightening on the walking stick. “I want to be free,” she grated out. “I want everyone to look and see something more than another sister.” She looked up, and locked eyes. “Someone who commands respect.”

For an instant there was silence - and then Lord Charles smiled. 

“I can work with that,” he said, darkly. His teacup clinked down. “Oh yes, most happily. You will gain what you seek, Jane Fitzwilliams. And of course, in return you will be loyal to me.”

“Yes,” said Jane, harshly. Then she felt awkward again, and folded her spare hand into her Greatcoat pocket.

White’s smile turned predatory, and his eyes narrowed. “You are a surprise, Miss Fitzwilliams. I had thought Owens merely making excuses for her failure, but you really might be more valuable than the message.” He turned back to the map, tapping the icon for Boralus. “We will induct you in due time. For now, it seems prudent to introduce you to your future subjects.”

Jane waved her hand, leaning heavily on the cane. “As you wish.”

“Indeed so,” said White, chuckling. “You do learn quickly, Miss Fitzwilliams.” He turned back to the map. There was silence. 

Jane wondered if she was dismissed - but shooting a glance from the corner of her eye, she saw her guard hadn’t moved.

“I’m saving their souls, you know,” White said, almost conversationally. “When I cut them down.”

“My Lord?” said Jane. Her head tilted almost involuntarily.

“With one swing of the sword,” hissed White. “Each of their souls is torn free, and granted to the Tides.”

Jane didn’t know what to say to this. With effort, she bit back an instinctive stream of curses. Her grip tightened on her cane.

White didn’t see this, as he was still facing forward. Dramatically, he straightened and made a dismissive gesture. “You may go now. Turn your attention to learning to dance.”

Jane jerked her head up in acknowledgement. The walking stick clicked on the floor as she stalked back outside, and the door swung shut behind her.

For an endless instant she wondered if she shouldn’t just go back inside and try to kill him. Then, with frustration, she acknowledged to herself the hopeless odds of one to seven, especially when limping. It was best to wait.

A door at the end of the corridor swung open, and a man with a mop stepped through. For the first time in two days, Jane caught a hint of something other than stale, stuffy air. She stepped forward, almost involuntarily, turning her face towards it. 

“Madam will return to her room,” said the butler, firmly. 

“No,” growled Jane. “I’m a part of your little scheme now, and I’ll not be caged up like a bear in a trap. If you can’t keep watch over one person, that’s your own affair.” She stepped towards where the draught was coming from, almost testingly. 

The butler stuttered his outrage, impotently. The blue-cloaked guard hesitated.

Then it was too late for hesitation - Jane had taken the opening and left, walking confidently down the corridor. The butler faded back into the distance, but the heavy footsteps of the guard followed.

The hallway ended in a wooden door, which in turn opened onto a large reception area. This was a hive of activity. Servants in the livery of House White bustled about, some cleaning, others airing banners, yet more hurrying through on their way to somewhere else. Faintly off in the distance Jane could almost hear the clatter of pots, and hints of fresh bread tinged the air. The atmosphere was tense. At one end, the main door lay half propped open, and people ducked through on their way outside.

Jane beelined for this exit. Her stick thumped eagerly on the flagstone floor. Servants broke around her like a wave, and Jane nodded thanks to them absently - but didn’t break stride.

Finally the cold outside air washed over her like a caress, chasing away the smog of the airless rooms. Jane tipped her head up to the sun, baskingly. It was mid-morning, and the light hadn’t yet melted the summer frost. Her eyes blinked in pleasure against the unaccustomed brightness. Everything smelled faintly of horses. 

Jane breathed it in with relish. 

“You-” growled her guard, stomping up behind her. 

“You will refer to me as ‘Ma’am’,” snapped Jane, half-turning. 

“Ma’am?” he stuttered.

Jane nodded, then gestured for him to continue.

“Ma’am,” he grumbled. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be outside.”

“Really?” said Jane tartly. “Because I remember Lord White ordering me to learn to dance. For that I need space, time, and the freedom to fail. Can _you_ teach me to dance, guardsman?”

“No, ma’am,” he mumbled, sounding abashed. His broad shoulders tensed unhappily.

Jane pasted on a thoughtful expression. “That stable should do,” she said. “There will be enough space there. I remember Owens capering for me once or twice on the road - she might suffice. Fetch her for me, please - then stand outside. It wouldn’t do my dignity any good to be discovered practicing.”

The guard, mercifully, nodded. “Yes ma’am.” He hesitated for a split-second - then lumbered off. 

Jane watched him go.

It was the work of several minutes to cross the courtyard. Her leg was aching abominably, and people were moving everywhere. Stacks of firewood were being shifted, horses exercised, and water carried. In one corner a blacksmith was striking a horse-shoe with expert raps, tapping her anvil rhythmically between each strike. 

The stables were a lucky choice. They were empty of people, and the horses seemed mostly indifferent to Jane’s presence. It was dusty, and some hay had escaped, but otherwise it was also clean. 

Jane walked further into the depths - then stopped, and pulled the tricorn from her head. One hand ran through light-red hair. Her leg ached, bone deep. For a time she just leaned against the wall, letting it support her full weight.

From behind her there was a burst of unsettled nickering, and the soft stomping of hooves.

“Jane?” whispered Cynthia. “Are you…?”

Jane’s face crumpled, and the tricorn’s brim crushed down under her hands. She turned, backing further into the darkness of the stable.

“Oh, shit,” breathed Cynthia. She rushed forward, hands lifted consolingly.

“I can’t do this,” said Jane, shaking her head. Her back bumped into the tall planks of a stall. “This isn’t a good idea - I’ll be caught any second.”

“It’s going to be alright,” soothed Cynthia, looking anxious. “It’ll all come right in the end. You’re doing great so far.” She stopped, hovering just outside range. 

“This place is so fucked up,” said Jane, wildly. She ran her hand through her hair again. 

“Yes, it is,” said Cynthia, almost pleadingly, stepping forward. “It really is. And if we get the message to Lady Grey, we can fix it.” Her hand slowly reached out. “Is that all right?”

Jane grabbed the offered hand and held on, desperately.

“My brave guardsman,” murmured Cynthia, sounding grieved. She stepped forward again, solid and steady. “Duty can be heavy. What did you see?”

Jane took a deep breath. “There were at least sixty tokens on a big map. At least four were in Boralus - another five were in Corlain - one was on the flagship.”

“The flagship?” said Cynthia, sharply. “Did you-? No, no- we’ll worry about that later.” Her face set. “Come on.” 

A firm tug pulled Jane deeper into the stable, into the tack room. The door was propped shut. Then Cynthia spun, and stepped into Jane’s arms. 

“Walter told me I was to teach you to dance,” she said determinedly. “Focus on nothing but that for a while. You’re taller, so you’re going to have to lead -”

Jane gasped out a laugh. Then she dropped the walking stick, took firm hold of Cynthia, and swept her into a waltz. 

Dancing had been a staple of the Fitzwilliams household.

She hummed a little tune to keep time. The footwork was hampered by her leg, but it was also an excuse to make the close tighter, and the turn slower. Cynthia spluttered for only a single second before she relaxed, feet working smoothly. They spun around easily, slower each time. Finally, languidly, Jane eased them to a stop.

Cynthia’s arms slid around Jane, and she stepped in, just slightly, resting her forehead against Jane’s chest. “Exactly like that,” she murmured. “Very good.”

Jane let her own arms relax, making no effort to move away. “You must be an excellent teacher,” she murmured back.

They stood like that for a while, silently. A beam of light fell from a window - dust motes tumbled through it. From outside came the faint sounds of calls and clopping hooves and ringing metal.

“I do have one question,” said Cynthia finally.

“Mm?” said Jane, her cheek pressed against dark hair.

Cynthia tucked her face firmly into the crook of Jane’s neck. “Who gave you these pants?” she said approvingly. “I need to thank them.”

Jane blinked, huffing in surprised outrage. Then she was biting her fist, suppressing laughter.

Cynthia’s mouth quirked slyly, waiting for the fit to subside. “Feeling better?” Dark eyes peered up at her.

Jane dropped her hand back down, wincing ruefully. “Yes, thanks. Although this uniform makes me feel like I’m playing dress-up in my sister’s clothes.”

“You’re fine,” said Cynthia, approvingly. “More than fine. You’re exactly the kind of person who should be wearing it.” Her smile slipped, slightly. “Speaking of which, can you- can you tell me anything about the map?”

“Only that it’s not credible,” said Jane. Her brow furrowed. “I’m an unknown quantity - letting me see a real map would be crazy. It must be an attempt to feed me false information.” She worried her lip, thinking. “If I am a traitor, and I reported back there might be a spy, then Willa is forced to mistrust everyone. But if I really am a potential recruit, then I would be in awe. The last thing he should do is show me real information.”

Cynthia’s face dropped back against Jane’s collarbone; Jane could feel the curve of her smile. “You’re right,” she said. “Lord Charles has a habit of presenting false information, and then being convinced he has tricked the subject. But…” she trailed off.

“But if the Lord Admiral is in danger, we can’t risk it,” finished Jane, worriedly. “It is literally my job to prevent that.”

“Indeed,” said Cynthia, ruefully. “And he has another habit, where he shows people real information because he believes they can do nothing about it. Reasons pile upon reasons - we must get you out of here.”

“Both of us out of here,” said Jane, firmly. “I’m not leaving without you.”

There was a short silence.

“But there’s no need to guard me anymore, remember?” said Cynthia, lightly. “I’m not the postman.”

“Cyn,” Jane said flatly. “I don’t care about that - I care about _you._ White will never believe you’re not responsible, and he’ll be right. You’ll go straight to the block, and he’ll wield that blade himself.”

Cynthia drew back, carefully, face neutral. They stared at each other for an endless second.

Jane scowled deeply. “You know I’m right.”

“Yes,” Cynthia said. Then she sighed in pure vexation. “But I can at least be displeased by it. The forests here are my home.”

There was silence again. 

“Could you tell me something?” blurted Jane. “Are you really, honestly pretending to be Cynethryth? Wouldn’t he be mad at you living in the forest pretending you’re him?”

Cynthia blinked - then smiled incredulously. “I don’t pretend to be Cynethryth.” She gave Jane a meaningful look. “Only White thinks that I even could - but a Thornspeaker would see through any imposter immediately. It would rather like pretending to be the Lord Admiral.” She patted Jane’s arm, consolingly, then turned, pointing at the slant of light creeping across the floor. “Speaking of appearances, I do believe it’s time for lunch.” Her voice turned coaxing. “It’s salmon today - my favourite. And the cooks make berry crumble for dessert.”

“Hmm,” said Jane, uneasily, smoothing down her coat. “You’re right, I guess. I had better show my face at mealtimes.” She looked into Cyn’s face, tense and worried. “Will I talk with you again?”

“If you wish,” Cynthia said, mildly. “There is a well outside the kitchen, tucked away in a little courtyard. No one goes there at night - if you need me, throw a pebble down into it, and I will come.” 

Jane nodded, jerkily. “Alright. How do I look?”

Cynthia leaned forward, and straightened the brim of the crumpled tricorn. Then she perched it jauntily on Jane’s head, tucking a strand of loose red hair behind an ear. “You look like someone a Kul Tiran would follow.” She smoothed down the crinkles of Jane’s shirt, then picked up the walking stick and handed it back. “Speaking of which, you’re going to need to pretend to be annoyed for the people outside.”

Jane scowled.

“Perfect,” murmured Cynthia. “Now - after you, ma’am.”

“Please don’t call me that,” grumbled Jane. Then she ducked through the stable door. Horses stamped in stalls, snorting. She ignored it, pacing down the aisle towards the big door.

The guard was standing at the entrance. He turned sharply towards her as she stepped out. “Ma’am? Success?”

“Tolerable success,” said Jane, grimacing. “Thank you, Owens - you are dismissed.”

“Very good, ma’am,” murmured Cynthia. She bowed, and ducked away towards the kitchen entrance.

Jane turned towards the main doors, pasting on a look of deep thoughtfulness.

“Ma’am?” said the guard.

“Yes, guardsman,” said Jane, tapping her cane against the ground. “How can I help you?”

“Lord White has hired a dance tutor for you, ma’am,” he said. “And a doctor - they’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Jane, blandly. “Perhaps my feet will survive learning to dance yet.” She frowned, staring at the man’s mask. “Will you take that thing off? It’s difficult to take a man seriously when he won’t look you in the eyes.”

The guard jerked, then hastily removed it - behind the mask’s grinning tusks and tentacles, he was a perfectly ordinary looking young man of about eighteen.

“Much better,” said Jane, nodding approval. “Now - lunch?”

“I will escort you to lunch,” he said, looking nervous. “But I am not sure I’m allowed to…”

“Nonsense,” Jane said grandly. “If you’re going to be my bodyguard, then I am invested in the idea of you not starving. Eat with me.”

Jane turned, and began to walk across the courtyard. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Walter,” he said, sounding confused. “I mean- Acolyte Walter, ma’am.”

“Guardsman Walter,” said Jane, pausing for a moment to look at him seriously. “This will be your first lesson from me. Young soldiers should never turn down free food.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Walter, smiling sheepishly. 

Jane winked, then turned and walked away again, suddenly sad.

Lunch was a fine affair. It involved far too many tiny spoons. Walter had been truly lost in the clutter of cutlery - Jane had to cough several times, catching his eye, before casually picking up the relevant fork. The salmon was delicious. Walter ate like a starving man.

The rest of the afternoon was whiled away in the only empty drawing room which seemed to possess a window. Jane played a disulatory round of chess against herself, then demanded a pack of cards. She seriously sat Walter down, then proceeded to demonstrate to him, experientially, the finer points of how one cheated at poker. He was a careful listener.

At dinner, the staff laid him down an extra plate. 

The next day passed much the same, except upon exiting the corridor, the guard had changed back. The friendly Walter was replaced by the massive, hulking guard from that first dinner. He loomed up at her, and laughed when she asked for his name. When she demanded some fresh air, he pulled out his club, and mimed striking her wounded leg. Jane mentally dubbed him Brute, and grudgingly retreated back into her room. There she waited for more favourable conditions. 

The day after brought back Walter. The following day saw Brute. Lord White didn’t call for her again. The electric energy of deception matured into a kind of stressed, tense boredom; Cynthia had vanished. One morning the maid slipped her a bear tooth; another day her lunchtime peas arrived mashed into the shape of a bear. None of this told her anything. On Walter days, she took to taking long walks atop the fortress curtain wall. On Brute days, she took to simple room-based exercises, and despair. 

Sometimes, up on the walls, Jane would see a flicker or a shadow out in the forest - but when she looked it was always nothing. 

Time lost meaning. One afternoon, she baited Walter into a debate, and this quickly became regular. He wasn’t an especially bright man, but he was agreeable. As they walked along the wall, they haggled over various topics - autumn vs spring, cold vs wet. Both agreed that tea should not be Elvish. Sometimes, carefully, Jane would bring up the Drust, and nudge him towards certain thoughts. Occasionally she caught him looking unsure.

Brute looked at her like he only wanted an excuse for violence; his hands would caress his club, expression hidden behind his bone white mask.

Her leg slowly healed, aching a little less each day. Each morning the doctor poked, and prodded it, and pronounced herself satisfied. Then the Kul Tiran dance tutor would arrive for his lesson. For some reason, he wanted to teach her only the pavane. Jane found him infuriatingly dull. 

Finally, after nearly a full two weeks of isolation and dull anxiety, Jane couldn’t stand it anymore. She resolved to go find Cynthia.

She dozed fitfully, unable to fully sleep. Without a window it was impossible to tell the time. Finally she dragged herself up, limping across the floor and pressing an ear against the wooden door. 

Outside was only silence. 

Slowly, she pulled back, drawing slowly back across the room again. A hand fished down behind the headboard, seeking cloth. The old coast-gaurd jacket was drawn out. Wrapped up inside the fabric was the key Cynthia had left her - she quietly shoved the dusty jacket back down again.

The walking stick made too much noise. Jane abandoned it, hobbling painfully over to the keyhole. Carefully, she eased the key inside the lock, and turned.

The lock was poorly maintained. Normally it shrieked like a banshee when turning a key. Jane prayed to every flowing Tide, smoothly giving it just a little more pressure each second. With a sudden snap, the metal latched back.

Jane threw herself back, lifting her fists. She strained every sense - nothing happened. With one hand she reached back for the door, grasping the handle firmly. Again, she applied smooth pressure, building it up from nothing. 

Again, metal snapped; the mechanism locked backward. The door was now free to swing.

Jane paused again, then pushed the door open. The hinges creaked loudly, and Jane winced - but kept going. Finally the door was open wide enough for her to slip through.

She had a brief, fierce debate with herself - shut the door, and risk more noise, or leave it open and risk discovery? Finally she compromised, pulling the door to the appearance of closed. It wouldn’t stand to close scrutiny, but in the darkness it would likely not raise alarm. 

Walter was sitting in a comfortable chair, slumped down. His head was tipped back against a pillow, and he was snoring softly. 

Jane shook her head, disapprovingly - then she began to slide up the corridor, towards the main body of the building. Nothing stirred. Jane kept to the edges of the corridor, gamely ducking around tables packed with useless items, and avoiding ragged parts of the carpet.

Finally she reached the door at the end of the corridor - it was ajar. Jane peeked around it, seeing nothing. The light of a moon was falling through two arrow slits mounted high up near the rafters. The air was still.

Suddenly, from outside, came the call of angry guards.

Jane slinked back into the shadows.

Two men burst into the hallway, arguing fiercely. One held a massive crossbow. Another, the single stripe of a Lance-Corporal on the sleeve of his jacket, was berating him heartily. 

“That was a bloody expensive cow you just bolted,” the Lancejack was growling. “Worth more than you are, for sure. Where is m’lord going to get his milk now?”

“It was moving,” snapped the other. “We’ve orders to shoot anything that moves, and so I shot it. Frank and Billy are out there right now, and would have done the same. What’s the problem here?”

Still arguing, they vanished into another wing.

Jane scampered across the floor, heading for the kitchen. She’d never been inside - every time she’d previously been out had been in daylight. Inside, the ovens were still warm. Everything was clean and dark. Cloth-covered dough lay out, ready for baking. Great heaps of apples, currents, and flour stood in kegs against the wall. Jane slipped past all of it, touching nothing. At the back was a small door, leading out into an enclosed courtyard. The wall was made of brick, not the thick stone of the outer curtain - the iron gate seemed flimsy. It was likely guards would not pass by.

There was a well in the middle, uncovered. A bucket and a rope lay next to it.

Jane searched around for a handy pebble, but found nothing in the darkness. Finally she picked up the rope and just tossed in the bucket instead.

The splash was gratifyingly minor. Jane dragged the bucket back up, leaving the pail of water aside, ready for use. Then she slumped down, leaning against the wall, waiting patiently. Her eyes drooped.

“Hey,” whispered a voice, out of the darkness. “I’m here.” 

Jane opened her eyes again.

Cynthia was crouching in front of her, looking uncertain. Her face was wreathed in shadow. 

“Hey,” said Jane, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Thanks for actually coming.”

“Of course, ” said Cynthia, inclining her head. “I wouldn’t lie to you about that.” A little half-smiled was offered, almost hopefully.

Jane looked at her, ruefully. “You do lie to me though.”

Cynthia froze in the moonlight. Then she sighed, and sat down next to her. They both leaned against the brick wall, silently. Cyn wrapped her hands around her legs, staring into nothing. 

“Yes,” Cynthia said. Her voice was steady. “Mostly it’s to try and keep you safe, if you’ll believe that. But yes, I have lied to you. A lot, actually.”

Jane tilted her head sideways. “And are you still lying to me?”

Cynthia paused, her face torn. “It depends,” she finally said. “Not really? But also I’m definitely keeping things from you. Drust secrets - politics - family recipes. That sort of thing.”

Jane nodded concedingly; it all seemed fair enough. 

“But I’m also not lying to you in many ways,” Cynthia said, face firming. Her arms gripped her knees tightly. “This is my home. These are my people. And you are my friend, Jane Fitzwilliams, even if I haven’t been a very good one in return.”

Jane glanced over. “You did feed me those berries that one time,” she said, dryly. “That’s a start, I suppose.”

Cynthia huffed. “Yes, they were rather capital, weren’t they?”

A cicada struck up his tune. Both women listened to him sing for a while, contemplatively.

“I will make it up to you,” whispered Cynthia into the darkness. “We will escape. If you trust nothing else about me, then pick that.”

“I do believe you,” said Jane, heavily. “Even though I don’t understand.” 

“You will,” Cynthia said, comfortingly. “At the end I will tell you everything - even the combination of spices for wild pork pie.” She turned, looking fierce in a half-light. “I swear it. On the turn of every Cycle, and the shaking of the Balance, you will know everything.”

Jane nodded, slowly. 

Cynthia relaxed against the wall again, and they sat in easy silence. Nothing moved, or stirred inside the house. The cicada droned on.

“My sister wrote to me once,” Jane mused, suddenly. “The Lord Admiral sister, not the Commodore, housewife, or Tidesage sisters. Or the Guildmaster.” 

Cynthia nodded; her eyebrows drifted upwards. “Go on,” she said, voice faintly strangled.

“Willa said she was glad I joined the Guard, because our inheritance was always hungry. That we needed to feed it justice.” Jane leaned back against the wall, waving her free hand. “She always writes like that. Bloody weird, usually.”

“Yes?” said Cynthia.

“But I think…” Jane lay her hand, palm up on her leg, invitingly. “I think your inheritance must be hungry too.”

There was a pregnant pause. Then a soft hand reached out, and rested inside Jane’s.

“Yes,” said Cynthia. “Starving. But we are ready to try the Cycle again, for the sake of the Great Balance.”

Jane nodded. “All right,” she said. “I believe you on that as well. So my duty must be to help you, if I can.”

Cynthia chuffed a little laugh, small and fond. “Perhaps let’s make your escape from the cult stronghold first,” she said. “And we can worry about the other stuff later, alright?” She squeezed Jane’s hand, and tilted her head up to the moon.“But for now, the night is getting on.” In the silvery light, Cynthia looked even more of the earth, grounded and dark.

Jane nodded, and pushed herself to her feet. “Tides preserve you,” she said, brushing down her pants. 

Cynthia stood up as well, retreating into the shadows by the gate. “Go in peace,” she said, then vanished through the wall.

The stealthy walk back to her room was uninterrupted. The hallways were empty, and Walter still snored. Jane tucked the key back behind the headboard, and drifted into a fitful sleep.

Two days later, White summoned her again.

“Miss Fitzwilliams,” he said silkily, as she was escorted in by Brute. “How good of you to join me.” He was sitting in a large chair, casually played with the White Sword. He lifted it up, letting it flash in the light. 

Jane ignored this, instead inclining her head. “Lord White.” 

“Your season will begin tomorrow night,” said White, idly. Suddenly he slammed the sword down, as if decapitating something. “The masquerade ball will reveal all. Soon the pieces will be in motion.”

Brute sighed in wistful satisfaction.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Jane, impassively. Then she folded her free hand behind her back, leaning casually on the walking stick.

White eyed her consideringly, then smiled, cold and ugly. “But do not think you will be trapped in balls and parties, Miss Fitzwilliams. Your true talents are not lost on me, and you shall have all the blood you wish in the coming days.” 

“If that is the case, then someone should return my staff,” said Jane. Her fingers spasmed around the top of the walking stick, and she cleared her throat. “I seized it from some Drust, who had believed themselves safe in their lair. My original thought was to turn it into an oar handle - but perhaps carrying it into battle would be appropriate as well.”

White’s face stilled - then he tipped back his head and he roared with laughter. One hand dropped the White Sword, and it clattered heedlessly to the floor. “Done,” he said, slapping the arm of his chair. “And may you break many Drust heads with it.” The other hand curled into a raised fist, cruel and approving.

Jane smiled, coldly. “Will that be all, my Lord?”

“Tomorrow night after the party,” he said. Suddenly he was quiet, and still. He leaned forward and picked up the White Sword again, stroking it reverently. “Your chance will be given. You will carry forward the power of the Tidemother.”

“A great glory, my Lord,” said Jane, voice cracking. She cleared her throat again. “Praise to Kul Tiras.”

“Praise be to Kul Tiras,” said Brute from somewhere behind her.

White nodded again, pleased. “You may go.”

Jane turned and strode from the room, mind working. No word had come on escape plans - possibly to keep her safe from exposure, but also because no escape might be forthcoming. And the ball was going to be a masked one - Jane’s strides turned into a dark stalk. People scattered before her, washing up against walls and through side doors. Brute kept pace easily.

Standing at the door was Walter. Clearly she had arrived back to her room after the guard shift was meant to change. 

“You’re late, runt,” said Brute, menacing him casually. He threw a set of keys into Walter’s chest. “Enjoy your last night of babysitting.” He turned and swaggered back down the corridor. Jane watched him go, struggling not to sneer.

“That’s me for tonight anyway, Guardsman,” said Jane, turning back. 

Walter nodded, fumbling with the keys - then he rushed forward to open her door. 

Jane nodded thanks, favouring him with a small smile. “Let no one enter, please.”

“Aye aye, ma’am,” said Walter smartly, snapping to attention. Jane had finally persuaded him that the hood looked stupid; he pulled it down now as soon as Brute was out of sight. Subsequently, his saluting attempts had gotten much better. 

“Sleep well,” Jane said. Then she closed the door. 

When she turned this time, it was with great expectations. She peered into every shadow, even peeking underneath the chair seeking a friendly shadow. No such shape appeared. Jane deflated a little. Then she clicked her way over to the bed, and sat down. Shoes came off. One hand smoothed over the neatly made covers. The walking stick was stowed away beside the headboard. 

Jane watched the fire, and waited hopefully, until she drifted off to sleep.

When she woke again, it was only to the customary knocking that preceded the butler’s arrival. The key squealed as it turned inside the lock.

“Madam has slept very late,” said the butler disapprovingly, as he pushed the door open. In one hand was the same silver tray he held every day. “Perhaps Madam should take an early lunch.”

Jane shoved up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The clothes from the previous day still clung to her body, now hopelessly wrinkled - a lone sock dangled off one foot. In the unchanging light of the room, it was impossible to tell what time it was. 

“I will send for the clothier,” announced the butler, sniffing. “And the bath. Madam will have a busy afternoon, and the morning is already gone.”

Jane made a general, dissatisfied sound, then rolled towards the food. It was not much - just a small bowl of light stew. It barely made a dent in her hunger. She was just working her spoon to snag every last morsel when a knock sounded at the door again. 

The key squealed again, and then the door opened to disgorge the tailor. 

He was wearing a crisp waistcoat, and his spectacles had been replaced in favour of a monocle. A measuring tape lay draped around his neck. From one finger dangled a mask - a snarling lion, embossed with red gold. The footmen with the bath hurried in behind him.

“Morning,” said Jane, putting aside the bowl. Her stomach growled, and she steadfastly ignored it.

“Ma’am,” the tailor said, bowing deeply. Then he clapped his hands. The chambermaid rushed inside. In her arms was a new suit - somehow even sleeker, finer, and more Kul Tiran than before. Silver embroidery on the high collars flashed with warring krakens, and wavy lines of almost-rank ran around the cuffs. Black shoes shone in the candlelight. 

None of that mattered to Jane. Her eyes caught on one detail - that tucked in the crook of the maid’s arm, almost lost in the splendor of the rest of the outfit, was the tall, Drustvar staff of Alys _ap_ Jac.

The tailor politely excused himself while Jane threw herself into the tub, and then dressed with extreme speed. The maid was only shooed away when it came time to fold up the cravat. With a little hop, Jane turned away towards the bed, exaggerating her motions, making herself clumsy. A swift act of slight-of-hand palmed the message tube, then slipped it unobtrusively up her jacket sleeve. 

The maid rushed out to fetch the tailor back.

“The fit is quite good,” he said upon his return. He eyed her critically as she turned around, pursing his lips. “But I feel it is missing something.”

Jane blinked at him. Then she turned to look at herself in the mirror again. The same face as every morning stared back; light red hair, delicate features, and a couple of unobtrusive scars. She turned back to him in confusion, and shrugged.

The tailor tapped his cheek thoughtfully, then smiled. “Here,” he said, pulling a pocket square from his waistcoat. “Perhaps this will do.” He shook it out for her inspection.

Marching across the red cloth, in dark golden stitching, was the swirling outline of a bear. 

The tailor caught her eye meaningfully, beginning to fold the pocket-square up. “Of course the mask will make you difficult to pick out of the crowd,” he said. “So this should help you really make friends with the right people.” He stepped forward to tuck it into her pocket, until not a hint of the bear could be seen. His eyebrows raised in warning. “But of course, it might be considered gauche by others.”

“I understand,” said Jane steadily. Her hand raised to touch the cloth - fluttered - then dropped away.

“Of course you do,” said the tailor, nodding and stepping back. His face set. “Good luck. Go in peace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, er. This work is a little longer than I expected - the next chapter might be up in a couple of days rather than next week. But the soup is about to boil over, so get ready for that I guess.

**Author's Note:**

> So. Yeah, another muli-chapter adventure novels set in the Age of Sail. Er, yeah, there is no justification for this. But they're pretty fun to write? - and Jane seems like the kind of person who has adventures. So here we are.


End file.
